Keep Your Eyes on the Sun
by Marla Fair
Summary: A sequel to Blood and Bread. Nearly a year after Little Joe was kidnapped by Wade Bosh a new threat arises born of an old pain. Can the Cartwrights survive being drawn into the tangled web woven by the choices Rosey O'Rourke made long ago?
1. Prologue

Keep Your Eyes on the Sun

Prologue

"Is he still in there?"

Nineteen-year-old Hoss Cartwright glanced at the bedroom door and then at his older brother. Adam's face was carved out of the same rock as his – a granite-worry that, so far, nothin' had been able to chip away at.

"You know how he is," his brother answered, his voice breaking with the strain of the last two days. "With something like this... Well, all the wild horses on the Ponderosa couldn't drag him away from that bedside."

"Doc said it's pretty bad, huh?"

Adam had been the last one to talk to their family physician. It had been about an hour before the older man had left to return to town to make his rounds. Doc Martin had come out of the sick room and down to the great room ten shades paler.

His older brother ran a hand over his stubbled face. "Actually, Paul said it was hopeless."

It was as if a bolt of lightnin' had struck him. The big teen stumbled. He saw the floor comin' up and felt himself goin' down. A minute before he would have hit the carpet, Hoss felt his brother's strong grip on his arm. A second later he was seated in the chair they had positioned in the upper hall just outside of the sickroom.

"Breathe deep, Hoss. Come on, I need you here with me."

Adam didn't plead. Heck, Adam didn't admit he needed help. The fact that he was doin' both scared him witless.

Swallowing over that fear, he asked, "Do you think he's really...gonna die?" Hoss drew in a breath that was dangerously close to a sob. "What'll we do if he does, Adam?"

He sounded like a kid who needed his Pa's shoulder to cry on.

He was.

Adam's squeezed his arm. His voice choked too. "You know what Pa always says, 'Keep your eyes on the sun and you won't see the shadows.' "

Hoss's eyes went to the bedroom door. He didn't see any sun. All he saw was a door that looked way too much like a stone standin' stark naked over a freshly dug grave.

He drew in a breath. "You think we oughta go in? It's been a good half hour. I mean, somethin' might of...happened..."

Adam rose and turned toward the door. "No. He would have come to get us. But I think you're right. It's probably best we get him back to his own bed."

Hoss squared his shoulders as he stood. "That's right. We gotta think about him. He's still sick hisself. Ain't no tellin', I mean, with that fever he could still..."

Older brother had his hand on the latch. He pivoted to look at him. "Keep your eyes on the sun, Hoss."

Easy to say.

Hard to do.

The door opened onto cavernous darkness. Doc Martin had told them to shut out the light so his patient could rest, so even though outside it was a bright and unusually warm spring day, inside it was black as a tomb.

Hoss winced.

Bad choice of words.

As he and his brother moved into the sick room, the seated figure by the bed didn't stir. His tear-streaked face and glazed eyes were trained on the bed that held all that was dear in the world to him.

He and Adam exchanged a look. Older brother cleared his throat.

They waited.

It took a few heartbeats. Finally, that tear-streaked face turned toward them. The eyes it held were glazed with their own pain. He shouldn't have been out of bed, he was still sick as a dog hisself – but that didn't mean nothin'. They both knew he'd _die_ sittin' there. Doc had told them before he left that if somethin' didn't change soon, he was goin' to sedate him since he wouldn't listen.

' _I don't need two Cartwrights dying on me_ ,' he'd growled.

It had been close.

Still was.

Adam moved first, like he always did, takin' things in hand. Hoss watched his twenty-five-year old brother walk over to the side of the bed. He placed both hands on those saggin' shoulders and gently lifted up.

"Come on. You're not well enough to be here. It's time you got some rest," Adam said softly. "One of us will stay."

At first it seemed his words went unheard. Hoss knew they hadn't. He saw that lean body beneath Adam's hands go rigid.

The words were hushed, grief-struck, and filled with rage. "It's all _my..._ fault. I should be lying there, not him. Not him! It should be _me_ dying!"

Hoss ventured closer. "You know he wouldn't want that. You ain't thinkin' clearly."

"I _am_ thinking clearly!" Anger shot him up and out of the chair and away from Adam's grasp. He crossed the room to the door and stood there shakin', still hurtin' from his own wounds and battlin' a deadly fever that was tryin' its best to carry him away. "You don't _know._ _You_ weren't there." The bluster went out of him, like a sail without wind. Tears fell. "I was! God...I was..."

The big teen exchanged a look with his older brother as the Doc's prediction shuddered through them both. Before them stood a vision straight out of some tale of the knight's of old – the righteous avenger, seekin' justice even at the cost of his own life. Hoss didn't know what to say or how to stop the rumbles that shook the ground under their feet, threatenin' to loose an avalanche of trouble.

Adam looked sick too. He was headin' toward the door and the forlorn figure standin' there when he stopped abruptly and turned back.

Hoss pivoted toward the bed. He'd heard it too. Two words. Just two words.

"Joseph...why..."

The big man heard a sharp intake of breath, a sob, and then the door slammed.

And Little Joe was gone.


	2. Chapter 1

ONE

One week earlier

Adam Cartwright drew a deep breath and fought to contain his irritation. At twenty-five years of age he'd long since moved past childish perceptions and expectations, and though he was of an age where he could have had his own children, there were times when he wondered if he ever would. Order was an ephemeral thing, hard to grasp and even harder to hold. He craved it like a man who was dying of thirst in the desert craved water. He _needed_ it, for without order there could be no control and without control you had chaos.

The definition of which would be Joseph Francis Cartwright.

The black-haired man let his exasperation out in a sigh. He'd actually begged – _begged_ , mind you – his middle brother to come to town with Joe this afternoon instead of him. In fact, he'd offered to do Hoss' chores for a week if he would. A package had come in on the stage for him a few days back and he had a stack of new books at home to peruse. All he'd wanted to do was stay there and read them. But no, Pa decided they needed new tools to take to the mining camp when they went on Monday and so, here he was, at the mercantile instead.

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, gang aft a-gley," he muttered.

Sometimes he wondered _which_ he was.

It seemed to him that there was a major conspiracy afoot to keep him from reading those books. Pa was elbow-deep in paperwork, which he said would take all day. The older man had growled like a grizzly when he suggested he save some of it for later and go into town with Little Joe and enjoy himself. Hop Sing was busy cooking in order to supply them with several days food for the trip he and his brothers would be taking, and his middle brother swore with his hand on the Bible that Pa'd ordered him to ride up to the timber camp today to check on the progress in felling trees for the job at the Manning ranch. Joshua Manning was a friend of theirs from the early days. He'd come through a recent bout of the flu, but had been left debilitated. Josh's eldest son was away at school and his other son was only half Joe's age. In between there were a bevy of bright-eyed blonde beauties who were, for the most part, useless.

Adam scowled. That was unkind.

It was unfortunately also true.

Turning to the right, Adam cast his eyes toward the supply wagon anchored in the street outside the mercantile. There, framed by the great glass window with its painted words proudly proclaiming that the store carried the finest European wares, was his little brother. He'd left Joe in the wagon hoping to avoid trouble. At first he thought he'd succeeded. The first time he'd looked out, Joe had been lazing on the wagon seat, his arms locked behind his head and his black hat tipped forward over his eyes. After handing the store's proprietor his list, he'd looked again to find Joe chatting with a pretty young filly. She was vaguely familiar from church and seemed to pose no immediate threat.

Then again, this _was_ Joseph Francis Cartwright he was talking about.

The third time – and it was _always_ the charm, wasn't it? – he'd glanced out the window to find Joe standing upright in the wagon, his fists planted firmly on his tapered hips and his jaw thrust forward. It was what he thought of as the boy's banty rooster stance and it meant trouble. Little Joe was facing down an older boy who, with his boots still firmly anchored on Eagle Station's dusty street, was nearly as tall as Joe _in_ the wagon. He easily outweighed Joe by fifty pounds. Adam wracked his brain for a name. He knew the kid, but hadn't seen him around for a while. Bruno? Brad?

No, Butch. It was Butch McTavish.

Adam ran a hand over his eyes.

Of course, it was.

"You gonna rescue that little brother of yours?" John Peck, the store owner asked. "Butch's a mean one. I hear tell he near killed a boy a few years back. Served near a year in some kind of school for wayward boys from what I hear. Today's his first day back in Eagle Station."

The black-haired man pursed his lips. He happened to know that Butch had been at the institution for about six weeks and that his uncle was the one who ran the school. The other boy in question had been badly bruised, but come nowhere near being killed.

So, what to do?

His pa and Hoss would have rushed out and intervened, angering and shaming Joe in order to prevent any...damage. He, on the other hand, thought the kid needed to toughen up. Little Joe was slight now and gave every indication of being slight when full grown. He and Hoss had talked about it and agreed and he'd been showing Joe a few tricks lately to use his small size to his advantage. Adam gnawed his lip as he watched the boys trade verbal spars. Joe was going to have to learn to defend himself against brutes and bullies and big men if he wanted to prevent being taken advantage of like what happened last year with...

Adam took in a sudden breath as the memory of what _had_ occurred punched him in the gut.

What was he thinking?

Concerned hazel eyes flicked from Butch to Joe. Joe's nostrils were flared and that jaw jutted forward now like a rocky bluff. His brother's fingers were clenched into tight fists and all one hundred and five pounds of him had gone rigid. To the casual observer Ben Cartwright's youngest son would have looked like he was rip-roaring and ready for a fight.

He knew better.

Joe was scared.

"Don't you care what happens to your brother?" John asked quietly.

Oh, he cared. He cared very much. As he watched Butch beckon Joe out of the wagon, time slowed. Each breath was an hour of time to curse himself.

Nine months back Joe had been kidnapped and abused by a brute of a man named Wade Bosh.

Bosh's abuse had left his brother terrified. For months Joe had been afraid to leave the Ponderosa.

Every time one of the hands came around who was near or as big as Hoss, Joe would flee.

This was his ornery, in-your-face, determined and fearless little brother.

Or it had been.

Adam looked again. Joe must have made his mind up that this was the time he wouldn't back down. Maybe he thought he could take Butch, since he too was a boy. Maybe Joe was just too embarrassed in front of the filly to back down – or maybe it was the circle of his school friends, including several very pretty girls, who had gathered to watch.

Whatever it was, Joe was getting out of the wagon.

Adam's hand was on the door now, pushing it open. Was it worth the kid taking a licking, he wondered, to show him that he _could_ fight back and win – that he didn't have to be afraid anymore? After all, Butch _was_ a boy – a big boy, mind you – but a boy. Would it help restore some of Joe's lost confidence if he let his brother wallop him?

On the other hand, would Pa let him come home if he did?

Joe and Butch were squaring off. Adam scowled with uncertainty as he watched the boys begin the familiar dance preparatory to throwing punches.

No. He just couldn't do it to him. He just _couldn't_ embarrass Joe. At thirteen his brother was fighting hard to be a man, and lately, he'd been doing a good job of it. They'd been up to the timber camp a number of times since Mr. Manning fell ill and each time Joe had been cooperative and really helpful in getting the work done.

Was the way to repay him by shaming him in front of his schoolmates?

John Peck had followed him onto the porch. As the store owner spoke again, Adam waved him off and walked to the edge. Joe was still physically under par from his ordeal with Bosh. His muscle tone was not what it had been and his eyes were weak. Still, he had good form and looked like he could go a round or two with Butch without being...maimed. Leaning against one of the porch columns, Adam watched and waited. It only took a second for Joe to spot him. His brother looked alternately guilty, frightened, puzzled, and then, pleased.

 _You go get him, boy!_ Adam projected. _Remember what I've taught you about taking on a man bigger than you._

A second later the fight began in earnest. Joe did well at the beginning, ducking and deliberately baiting Butch into throwing useless punches, which he easily ducked in order to tire him out. The maneuver, unfortunately, also served to make the bully furious, which could go either way – Butch would be so angry he'd do something stupid and open himself up to attack, or he'd be so enraged he'd take Joe's head off.

Since this debacle was of his making, he was banking on the first.

The crowd, of course, was going wild. Joe's male friends – he could see both Seth and Mitch – were rooting loudly for him. Tory Jennings was there too, Joe's sometime girlfriend. She was the filly from church he'd been trying to place. Tory was yelling for Joe to win.

At that moment Adam knew he was vindicated. Even if his brother ended up in the hospital and his father disowned him, Joe's girl knew he was a man.

Adam's eyes returned to the crowd. There were a half dozen boys rooting for Butch as well, several of which had been known to bully Joe before. They'd all been drummed out of school and had matured as only a boy could when placed too soon amidst the rough and tumble men who worked a ranch. The black-haired man watched them closely.

So long as the fight remained honest and Joe wasn't hurt badly, he was determined not to interfere.

A second later there was a loud exclamation of surprise and Butch dropped to his knees. Joe's knuckles were bleeding, but he'd managed to catch the bigger boy with an uppercut to the jaw that took him down. Butch fell amidst a chorus of cheers and boos. The bully landed on his hands and knees, gasping. Adam grinned. Joe was standing over him; his battered hands still raised and fists clenched as if ready to take on any newcomers.

A triumphant smile curled the end of his little brother's split lip.

Then, it happened – too swift for him to react. One of Butch's friends came up behind Joe and pinned his arms to his sides. As Joe wriggled to escape, another smacked him on the side of his head, putting him off-kilter. Seth and Mitch were on the move, but more of the bullies buddies moved in, ringing Joe, preventing them from reaching him. Adam stepped off the porch. As he did, he caught Joe's eye.

And realized he had made a _big_ mistake.

Like a roaring bull, Butch reared up off of the dusty street and charged, driving his head hard into Joe's left side right where the ribs met his abdomen. The air that left his brother's lungs was audible. Joe went down and Butch went down on top of him, driving his brother's slight form into the hard earth and then pummeling him with his fists.

Adam was on the move but the crowd, which by now included adults, was too thick for him to part. He hesitated only a moment and then he pulled his pistol from its holster and fired once, high into the air.

The street fell silent.

The shot, of course, brought Deputy Roy Coffee out of his office and sent him hustling across the street to break up the fight.

"Ain't you boys got nothin' better to do than pound each other like a side of beef!" the lawman shouted, his voice stern. "I oughta throw the whole _lot_ of you in jail for disturbin' the peace!" Reaching down, Roy grabbed Butch by the collar and hauled him back. A horrified look crossed his face when he looked at Butch's victim. "One more year on you, boy, and I'll be havin' you up on attempted murder charges for what you done!" he told Joe's attacker.

Adam swallowed hard, stunned by Roy's words.

He had yet to get a good look at Joe.

This time the crowd parted as he moved. The only ones left were Joe's friends and several of his friends' parents – including Tory's mother and father – so it wasn't difficult to make his way to his brother's side. When he got there, Adam fell to his knees and reached out toward the battered form.

With a glance at Roy, who shook his head, he breathed, "Good Lord..."

Joe's lower lip, the skin over his left cheek, and the ridge above his left eyebrow were all split and bleeding. His jaw was turning black and blue. His knuckles were scraped nearly to the bone and both knees were bleeding, the fabric of his light gray pants having split when he fell. But that wasn't the worst thing. The buttons of his brother's white shirt had been popped. The bloodied fabric lay open revealing his chest and the heavy bruising that was spreading like a cancer over his brother's abdomen as he watched.

Adam choked. "Joe..."

His little brother was half-conscious, but there was enough life and spark left in him for his battered lips to curl into a weary smile. Feebly his brother's fingers clasped his red shirt.

"Thanks...Adam..." Joe wheezed just before he coughed.

"Thanks? For what?"

Joe grimaced, then the smile returned. "For...letting me be a...man..."

That life and spark? Well, they went out of him then. Joe lapsed into unconsciousness and lay in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Roy Coffee had turned Butch and the other boys over to Sheriff Olin, who was herding them toward the jail. As he stared at Joe's slight form, the deputy said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You'd best be gettin' Little Joe to the Doc's, Adam. You hear?" He turned to glance at the crowd. "From what I been told by Tory and her folks, Butch started this here fight. Little Joe ain't got nothin' to worry about."

Adam slipped his arms under his brother's slight form and lifted him up.

No. Joe didn't have anything to worry about.

But he did.

He might just have killed his brother.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben Cartwright stood outside the front door of his home, looking toward the Eagle Station road. It was early evening and the warm May day had given way to a chilly night. It was nearly eight o'clock and he was growing concerned. The task he'd set Adam and Joseph earlier in the day should have taken an hour or two at most to complete. They'd had plenty of time to return. Of course, there was always the possibility that his youngest had talked his oldest into eating supper at Beth Riley's. Beth made the best pies in town and she always thought Joseph needed fattening up, so she doled it out in large portions. If it had been Hoss he'd sent into town with Joe, he would have been even more concerned. Joe might have talked his middle brother into some hair-brained scheme. As it was, with Adam at the helm, he was able to keep his worry in check.

Adam wouldn't let anything happen to his younger brother.

Ben looked back into the house, imagining the desk in his office with its mountain of paperwork that still needed scaled. He'd been diligent so far, but had made little headway. It seemed every time he turned around, he needed Adam's thoughts, skills, or knowledge to complete it. He wondered idly when he had come to rely so heavily on the boy.

Boy.

Ben sighed. Adam had never _been_ a boy. Not really. At a little over six years old he had become responsible for his baby brother, and by the time Hoss could care for himself, there was Joseph. For the years Marie had been alive that burden was eased, but it had been during those years that his eldest son had begun to grow into his role as a man, riding at his side, taking charge of the hands – Ben glanced at the desk again – doing the paperwork, and helping to build the dream that was the Ponderosa.

Ben entered the house and closed the door behind him. It was a good thing the man Adam had grown into had broad shoulders. He needed them to bear all of the responsibilities his father laid upon them.

"Nothin', Pa?" Hoss asked.

The nineteen-year-old was seated by the fire. There was a book in his hand – not an unheard of occurrence in his middle son's life, but one that was fairly rare. It actually belonged to Joe and according to his youngest son – who was also not the most voracious of readers – it was one 'rip-snortin' tale'. The title was _The Man in the Iron Mask_ and it had been written by one of his own favorite authors, Alexander Dumas.

The rancher shook his head in answer to his son's question. "No sign yet, but then again, since Adam is with Joe there's nothing to worry about."

Hoss snorted. "You just keep tellin' yourself that, Pa. One day you'll believe it."

"Are you implying that I still think of your oldest brother as a boy?"

"No, sir. I'm implying you ain't quite acquainted with that youngest son of yours. Little Joe sure-as-shootin' has a nose for trouble! You can't let the boy walk to the stable by himself without thinkin' somethin' might..." Hoss' voice trailed off. A look – somewhere between sick and sorry – came over his son's beefy face. "I sure am sorry, Pa. I didn't mean to bring up no bad memories."

"There's no need to apologize, Hoss," he answered quietly. "You've described the youngest Cartwright quite accurately."

His son was silent a moment. "Joe still ain't right, is he, Pa? I mean, not all the way."

Ben sat down on the settee opposite him. "Why don't you tell me."

Hoss shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don't mean nothin' unkind, Pa. You _know_ how much I love Little Joe. But he ain't...well, he ain't hisself. Oh, he makes a good show of it, pretendin' to be a fiery little cuss and givin' as good as he gets."

"But?"

"It's in his eyes, Pa." Hoss hesitated. "It's like he's scared all the time."

The ordeal Joseph had been through nearly a year before – being kidnapped from his home by a vengeful sailor who thought he was his long lost 'son', being drugged and tormented both mentally and physically, and then abandoned in the hold of a ship and left to die – would have been enough to break a full-grown man. As it was his youngest had survived, but there were scars – deep ones – and the saddest thing was, Joseph wouldn't talk about them. Whenever asked, 'How are you?', his answer was the same. Every one of them could mouth it before he spoke.

'I'm fine.'

Joseph was anything _but_ fine.

They'd had family discussions, early in the morning when they knew Little Joe was asleep. The conclusion was – much to his determination to do otherwise – that he'd agreed to let Joseph range a bit farther away from the house, hence the trip to town today. Wade Bosh had taken many things away from Joseph. Adam had pointed out that his brother's belief in himself was the chief one.

Ben glanced toward the door again, seeing his oldest and youngest exit through it. It had been hard to let the boy go. God, it had been hard! Other than school and letting him occasionally travel with his brothers, he'd kept Joseph close since...well... _since_ what happened with Wade Bosh. There was always the fear in his mind and heart that someone or something would rear up out of nowhere and take his son away from him again.

Hoss cleared his throat. He was waiting on an answer.

"You're brother will recover in time," the rancher replied, seeking to convince himself as much as his son. "Joseph needs to gain confidence. That's why I'm allowing him to go with you and Adam again."

"He was a lot of help up at the timber camp last week," Hoss said. Then he winked. "And only a _little_ trouble."

Ben laughed. It felt good.

"Pa? You hear that?"

The rancher listened. "I sure do!"

Ben started toward the door, heartened by the sound of a wagon rolling into the yard. He opened it and stepped out, ready to greet his sons – only to find two strangers, one in the drivers' seat and the other on the ground and headed for the house. The man closest to him looked to be in his early to mid-forties, though he could have been younger. He had the look of a seasoned cowboy – grizzled and sunburned, with skin like leather and pallid gray eyes that had seen too many trails and trials. His sandy beard and mustache were liberally dashed with a pale blond tone, as were the ramrod straight eyebrows that topped them. The man in the wagon was younger – about Adam's age. He had thick wavy brown hair, the color of Joseph's but not as curly. His face and features were small – almost delicate – and his body a bit on the skinny side. If the drifter was his father, then he favored his mother.

The cowboy halted before him and tipped his hat. "Evenin'."

Ben nodded. "Good evening. Is there something I can do for you?"

The man glanced at the boy and then turned back. Sticking his hand out he said, "Name's Webb. Fremont Webb, though everyone calls me Monty." As Ben took the offered hand and shook it, Monty went on. "I'm hopin' so. We were on our way to the Manning's spread when Greg here got to feelin' poorly."

The rancher looked at the younger man again. He _was_ a bit hunched over.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Oh, it ain't nothin' contagious. He 'et somethin' and it's gone off a bit. Boy's got a weak stomach." The cowboy turned. "Ain't that right, Greg?"

Greg scowled and rolled his eyes.

The sight tore at Ben's heart. The gesture was so like one Joe would make.

"Somethin' wrong, sir?" the man asked.

"Please, call me Ben." He shook his head. "No, I'm just a bit preoccupied."

"Sorry to disturb you then, Ben. We'll be on our way."

"No. No, please stay. You can bed down in the bunkhouse for the night. We have spare beds at the moment as a good many of the men are out in the field with the branding."

"Thank you, sir," Monty said with a tip of his hat. He'd begun to walk back to the wagon when he halted and turned around. "Ben. Would that be Ben Cartwright?" he asked.

The question was as routine as his reaction to it should have been.

The knot in his stomach told him otherwise.

"I was so worried about gettin' the boy off that wagon and into a bed, I almost forgot. I should've asked." As he spoke, Monty pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and held it out to him. "Guess I wasn't thinkin'. The man who gave me this told me yours was the first spread I'd come upon on the road. We heard tell there was work at the Mannings. That's why we were headed that way. I said I'd bring it by."

Ben took the paper and held it like it was a snake about to strike.

"Man?" he asked with a lift of his near-black brows.

"Tall fellow. Black hair. Good lookin'. He was in the saloon askin' if anyone was headin' out this way. Said he needed to get this to you quick as a lick."

"Was his name Adam?"

Monty shrugged. "Could be. I heard that name. Might of belonged to him and might not." The cowboy eyed him. "You gonna read it?"

Ben paled as he unfolded the slip of paper and recognized his eldest son's strong hand. He began to tremble as he read it.

 _Pa. Sorry, Pa. Made a terrible mistake. Joe hurt. My fault. Come now._

Ben lifted his eyes to the sky. The stars were out. The moon rising. Adam would have had to know the note could not reach him before dark.

Come _now_.

Something was terribly wrong.


	3. Chapter 2

TWO

Rosey O'Rourke stood back to admire the dress she was working on. She had a half dozen pins in her mouth and a pencil behind her ear and had her newly purchased glasses perched on the tip of her nose so she could examine her handiwork. While it didn't compare to Ming-hua's, it was pretty darn good if she said so herself. Removing the pins from between her lips, she stuck them through the fabric of her plain white pinner apron and turned back into the work room. They'd only opened the business a little over three weeks before and already there were orders stacking up. That was due to the talent of the young Chinese woman she shared the establishment with. The sign that hung above the door of the dress shop was up front and honest, though few understood its meaning. It proudly proclaimed 'Tomorrow's Flower, Millinery & Fancy Goods'.

'Tomorrow's flower' was, of course, the English translation of Ming-hua's name.

Rosey pulled the pencil from behind her ear, made note of a few measurements, and then removed her apron and headed for the show room that fronted onto the main street in Eagle Station. It was late and the shop was closed and, as usual, they'd decided to stay after hours in an attempt to catch up. Ming-hua had left a few minutes earlier to see if she could rustle up some grub for them at one of the local eateries. Beth Riley worked late too, baking pies for the next day's sales, and they could usually count on her to supply them with some cold sandwiches and a slice of whatever pie had been left over that day. On reaching the showroom, the older woman crossed to the window and looked out. There seemed to be an unusual amount of activity down the street, across from the saloon, on the block that held Doctor Martin's office among other businesses. The doctor was often in late as well. Rosey laughed as she turned away and headed for her desk.

Maybe after-hours _were_ normal hours when you had your own business.

It was still new to her – owning a business and living in a town the size of Eagle Station. She'd lived in bigger ones, chief among them San Francisco, and smaller too – if you counted her own little 'village' of one high in the Sierras. But this was different. Eagle Station was small enough that just about everybody knew everybody else's business. Sometimes that was a good thing, but at other times, well, it simply made her want to run. It wasn't that anyone had been cruel. In fact, they were _too_ kind. As a woman Beth Riley had honed in quickly on the fact that there had been a tragedy in her life. She'd wanted her to talk about it – to help her.

Not yet.

It was too soon.

Though her involvement with saving Joseph Cartwright from the clutches of Wade Bosh – the man who had kidnapped the boy close to a year back and nearly sailed away with him – had helped to ease the pain of her own loss, after thirteen years it was still too raw to share.

Rosey smiled as she reached up to undo the bun at the nape of her neck and shook her long brown hair free.

With anyone other than Ben, that was.

Their arrival in town had been set for late April. Instead they'd arrived near the beginning of May and so she had seen little of the handsome rancher as he was busy rounding up and branding calves, as well as dealing with several sizeable mining and timber contracts. She and Ming-hua had been invited to the Ponderosa that first week and had spent a lovely evening in the company of all the Cartwrights and their Chinese cook who, in spite of his very vocal protests, had been convinced to sit down and join them. Adam played his guitar and he and his brothers entertained them with rousing renditions of some familiar songs. Over the course of the evening, she'd paid special attention to Ben's youngest. Joseph had been so ill when she'd first met him, she barely recognized the boy. And when she did see him hale and hearty, with his lightly tanned skin and that thick head of lustrous brown curls, the resemblance to Rory had been a knife to her heart. It was foolish, of course. If he'd lived, her son would be near Adam's age now. Still, in her heart, Rory was forever twelve. Once, over supper, their eyes had met – Joseph's wide emerald ones locking on hers, which were brown as silt. Something had passed between them at that moment. A fusion of sorts.

In that moment she had come to love him as dearly as her own.

Whenever he came to town the youngest Cartwright was always sure to stop by the dress shop, even if it was just to say hello. She'd seen Little Joe earlier in the day. He'd come by and flashed that winning smile of his and showed her a bag of sweets, which he quickly tucked into his white shirt. Apparently he'd been ordered by Adam to stay in the supply wagon while his older brother conducted business inside the mercantile. Seeing that Adam was busy, Joseph had taken the opportunity to sneak across the street to the confectioners. Rosey couldn't help but smile as she removed her apron and tossed it over the chair back. He was a caution, that one. And from what she had witnessed so far, the child most like his father. She'd come to know Ben Cartwright quite well over the course of the weeks they had hunted for Joseph, and under very trying circumstances. She'd seen the rancher fight despair, find courage in his faith, react in righteous anger, and ultimately choose justice over vengeance.

She could only hope, should God choose to try her in such a way, that she would emerge in the end as victorious as he had.

Crossing over to a cupboard where she kept her personal things, Rosey opened the door and drew out a small oval frame. She held it to her heart for a moment and then looked at the image it held. There, on the metal sheet, was the likeness of all she had lost. Her husband Patrick had been a successful physician. Though she told him it was an extravagance, he had insisted they have it taken. She'd forgotten about the photograph and had only discovered it as she and Ming-hua dismantled her home in preparation for the move to Eagle Station. Her younger self was there, looking happy and content, and her dear Pat. And Rory. Her beautiful boy. He'd been told not to move, but _not_ moving was not in Rory's nature. His image was slightly blurred, as if he'd already been halfway in the next world.

Reaching up, the older woman struck a tear away and then returned the frame to the cupboard. As she did, she heard the door to the shop open. Since it had been locked, she knew it had to be Ming-hua. As she turned to greet her, a chill ran down her spine and she froze in place.

"Miss Rosey come quick! Mister Ben have need of you," her young companion said.

"What's happened?" she asked as she reached for her cloak.

The child looked frightened. "I do not know. Mister Ben is very angry. He hit Mister Adam."

Rosey paused with her hand on the door. " _Ben_ hit Adam? Are you sure?"

Ming-hua nodded.

Catching the girl's hand in her own, the older woman breathed, "Show me."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hoss Cartwright was more scared than he had ever been in his life.

Now, he could honestly say that in his nineteen years of walkin' the earth, there'd only been a few times he'd been _really_ scared. Being big as he was kind of prevented it most of the time. He'd been afraid when his little brother was born – _terrified_ if he told the truth – that both that little baby and his mama was gonna die. And then mama _did_ die. That had sure been awful. There'd been a few times since then when Little Joe'd near died too 'cause of some harebrained thing he'd done like climbin' Eagle's Nest or mountin' up on some fool maverick of a horse. And, of course, there'd been a thousand little scares with horses and cattle and men, but each and every time – big or little – there'd been one constant. Him and his father and brothers, they was always there for each other just like Pa taught them to be. It didn't seem like nothin' could tear them apart.

Nothin' until now.

Adam was layin' in the dirt outside Doc Martin's place and it was Pa who put him there.

He and Pa had ridden into town lickety-split, only stoppin' once in the whole twenty miles to let the horses rest. Pa'd pulled the note Adam sent out of his pocket and read it again while Chubb and Buck was coolin' down. He didn't say much, just shook his head. He'd seen his pa in a lot of tight situations. It was kind of like the man turned to steel – like _being_ steel would slice through whatever it was that was comin'. Pa'd had an awful lot of hurt in his life and sometimes it seemed like he was just waitin' for the next one to come. Maybe, since steel was just about the toughest thing there was, he thought by becomin' it, he could make it through anythin'. Trouble was, Pa had what Adam called an Achilles' heel.

And that was Little Joe.

Pa's love for mama had been fierce and Joe was all he had left of her. Oh, he loved him and Adam too – just as much as little brother – but in a different way. It was like Pa knew one day Joe would to fly too high or run too fast or ride too hard like mama did, and it was his God-given duty to prevent it. He'd laid that charge on them too, makin' it clear to him and Adam that they was to protect their baby brother even if it meant makin' Joe mad.

Even if it meant keepin' Little Joe from growin' up and becomin' a man.

They'd talked about it, him and Adam. Since Joe'd been rescued from that Bosh feller, Pa was even worse, barely lettin' Joe out of his sight. It was chaffin' on little brother and that was why Adam had taken him into town with him today. Even Hop Sing saw how Pa kind of had Joe in a chokehold. Yeah, him and Adam had talked and they'd agreed that one day one of them was gonna have to tell Pa he better let loose or the boy would turn up his toes and die.

It looked like that day had come.

Adam had staggered to his feet. He was wipin' the blood from his lip. Pa was bearing down on him like the fury of Heaven unleashed. Older brother had said somethin' he shouldn't ought of and Pa had just plain lost his temper.

"You will mind your tongue with me, young man!" Pa shouted as he flung his arm out toward Doc Martin's door. "I trusted you! I _trusted_ you, Adam! _How_ could you have let this happen?"

"I said I'm sorry, Pa," Adam answered, his own temper barely under control.

"Sorry will mean little if your brother dies!"

Hoss knew better, but he said it anyway. "Now, Pa, that ain't fair –"

He rounded on him, his black eyes blazin'. "This does not concern you!"

That hurt. 'Course it did. Joe and Adam was his brothers.

"Pa, if you'll just let me explain why I did what I did," Adam tried again.

That there steel he'd been thinkin' on earlier that Pa was made of, well, it was fiery red now and waitin' for the bath that would make or break it. It all hung on one word.

" _Well?"_

Adam did his best. He set to explainin' how he'd left Little Joe in the wagon out front of the mercantile where he could keep an eye on him, and how Tory'd come up to flirt, and then how Butch – probably 'cause he was jealous of Joe and Tory – had picked a fight. Older brother was doin' right well up until the moment Pa realized the same thing he did.

Adam ain't done one thing to stop that fight from happenin'.

Their father was shakin' his head. He pushed a hand out in front of him, wavin it like he was tryin' to offset a stampede.

"Wait a minute. _Wait!_ So, I _did_ understand you earlier," Pa growled. "You had time to stop the fight and _chose_ not to?"

Older brother squared his feet. "Yes."

There was a hissin' as that fiery steel hit the water. "Balls of fire, boy! What were you thinking?"

Adam didn't back down. "I'm _not_ a boy, Pa, and that's because you let me grow up. You treated me like a man when I was twelve." Older brother glanced at the doctor's office. Pain set his jaw as much as anger. "For God's sake, Pa, Joe's thirteen!"

"And he may never live to see fourteen, thanks to you!"

"You're not listening to me," Adam shot back. "A punch in the belly. A shot in the back. Those are mercifully quick ways to die. Pa, you're killing Joe slowly. Since he's been home you've barely let him out of your sight – "

"You know full well what happened when I _did_ let him out of my sight!"

"So what are you going to do? Keep him tied to a post in the front yard for the rest of his life? Take away every bit of self-respect he has by mollycoddling him and making him a laughing stock?" Adam drew a sharp breath. "You've made Joe a prisoner just as surely as Wade Bosh did!"

Hoss winced. He'd heard it.

The steel snapped.

He was just about to put himself between his father and brother to keep them from lighting into one another again when a woman's voice called out. "Benjamin Cartwright!"

Pa stiffened. Those near-black eyes of his flashed a warning. "Keep out of this, Rosey," he said. "This is between Adam and me."

That ol' Rosey, she walked right up to his pa and said, "You and Adam – and about half the citizens of Eagle Station!"

Looking at her, standin' 'there with her hands on her hips, Hoss remembered what Pa had told him about Rosey bein' a scout for the army. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Pa could bark all he wanted. She weren't scared of nothin'.

The older woman glanced at Adam and then turned back to his pa. "What is it that's come between you two?"

Adam opened his mouth to reply, but Pa beat him to it. "Adam's negligence may have cost his brother his life!"

Rosey glanced at the doctor's office. "Little Joe is hurt?"

His father's jaw was set. His lips, a knife's edge. "Yes."

"And you two are out brawling like common thugs in the middle of the street instead of being inside supporting him? Shame on you!"

"A-Adam..." Pa stuttered.

"I don't care 'what' Adam did! Do you think _Little Joe_ cares right now?" She pressed a finger into pa's chest. "Don't you think, at this moment, that beautiful boy of yours might just be wondering where his father is?" The color was up in her cheeks. Her eyes were bright. "Would you like me to go in there and tell Joseph that instead of sitting with him, you are out here in the middle of the street brawling with his older brother?" Her hand shot out toward Adam. "Look at this young man! Your words might as well have been bullets! Do you honestly think Adam would have done anything to bring deliberate harm to his brother?"

Pa hesitated. Only a second.

It was enough.

Adam staggered back as if from another blow. "You don't... You don't think I _wanted_ Little Joe to get hurt?"

Pa looked like he'd been hoof-struck by a thoroughbred. "Adam, no..."

"You do! You _honestly_ think I enjoyed seeing my little brother pounded!"

Pa looked sick. "Adam, no. It's just that you and Joseph –"

"We what? Argue? Knock heads?" Older brother was slow to burn, but once the fire was lit it would take all of two counties to put it out. "If you can think that, Pa, then you don't know me at all. And maybe I don't know you."

"Adam..." Rosey reached out toward him.

"I'll get my things and be gone by the end of the week," Adam said, his voice strained to near breaking. "I'll be sure to forward you my address. That way you can let me know whether Joe lives or dies."

Into the stunned silence that followed Adam's declaration, a sound bled. It was Doc Martin's voice. Hoss turned to find the older man standing, framed in the open door of the office, an irate look on his face.

"While you two have been out here butting heads like mountain goats in heat, Little Joe has been calling for you – _both_ of you." Paul's voice was edged with disgust. "You might try thinking about that injured boy in there instead of yourselves!"

All the color bled from Pa's face. "Is Joseph...?"

Paul looked utterly weary. "I don't know anything for certain, Ben. It's too soon. Joe's ribs are involved. His abdomen's a bit tight. The good thing is the bruising hasn't spread anymore." The physician shook his head. "Adam I might excuse. He's young. But you, Ben? You should know better! Instead of wasting your time trying to find someone to blame, it would be well if you attended your son!"

Rosey reached out in both directions – toward Pa and Adam. "Truce?" she asked.

Pa nodded quickly. He extended his hand as well. "Adam, son, I'm sorry. I know you love your brother."

It weren't exactly an apology and Adam knew it.

His older brother rarely cried. Sometimes it seemed like he'd done cried himself out what with losin' two mamas. So the fact that Adam's eyes were glistenin' now was just another sign of how deep the hurt Pa had given him went.

"I do," his brother replied. "And _that's_ why I'm going into the doctor's office. But I'm telling you, Pa, I'm done. Once Joe is out of danger I'm leaving, and nothing you can say will stop me."

With that Adam pushed past Paul Martin and went into the building. Pa's eyes followed him. He done looked as sick as Little Joe must feel. Rosey was hangin' onto his arm. She lifted a hand to his cheek, but Pa batted it away.

"Fools make poor fathers," he muttered and then followed Adam inside.

Hoss turned and looked at Ming-hua.

"Tiger father begets tiger son," she said softly.

"Yeah, I guess so," the big teener replied. Then he remembered another one of those Chinese sayings about tigers. One Hop Sing was fond of.

 _He who rides a tiger can never get off._

He just hoped that one was wrong.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Paul Martin had no idea if Little Joe Cartwright was going to live or die, though he was optimistic about the boy's condition, but he did know the signs of death when he saw them. Ben and his son Adam sat on opposite sides of Little Joe's bed, only a few feet apart, but the distance between them might as well have been miles. How Ben could have three sons by three different wives and have each and every one of them come out mule-headed as he was, he just didn't know. It was a miracle plain and simple that the four of them managed to live in harmony.

Still, none of that mattered now. What mattered was his patient, and he was damn sure he wasn't going to let whatever had passed between Ben and his eldest boy cause Little Joe any distress. The boy had already been upset when he woke and found he was alone. It hadn't been all that long ago Joe had thought himself abandoned. He'd kept a close watch on the boy over the last six months. To the causal stranger, Joe seemed a bright and happy, if sometimes hasty and determined child. To those who knew him better – the men and women of Eagle Station, those he went to school and church with – he seemed a bit subdued.

To those who knew him well, he was changed.

Joe Cartwright was one of those miracles of God – handsome, with a natural magnetism and a personality that would not quit. As his mother used to say, he could have charmed the socks off of Lucifer. The boy was strong-minded, sometimes in the wrong way, but most often for the good. More often than not, Joe's strength of mind was bent on righting what he saw as injustice – whether it be to himself or someone he loved. And once Joe Cartwright set his mind on something, it took nothing short of an act of God to stop him. He had the potential of being a most remarkable man.

That was, if he lived to reach maturity.

The bruising still worried him. Though, as he had told Ben, in the last half hour it's spread had slowed, which was a good sign. There was no real way to know until morning whether or not there was internal bleeding. If so, there was little he could do. If there wasn't, then Little Joe would be one very sore young man, but – due to his age and constitution – would heal quickly.

Paul glanced from Ben to his eldest son.

He could only pray the rift between those two would mend as swiftly.

"Is he gonna be all right, Doc? Is Little Joe gonna be okay?" Ben's middle son asked as he entered the examining room. He'd sent Hoss out to get a bottle of brandy from the hotel. He had a feeling the two men sitting on opposite sides of the bed were going to need it before the night was out.

Paul caught Hoss by the arm and drew him into the front room. As he closed the door behind him, the older man indicated the street outside with a nod.

"What exactly happened out there?"

Hoss squirmed a bit. "Shucks, Doc, you know them too."

"Which 'two' would that be – Adam and Joe, Adam and your father, or your father and Little Joe?"

"Adam thought he was doin' what was best for Joe," the young man said.

"Letting him get beat up?" he asked, his tone dubious.

"No! Letting' him fight his own fight!" Hoss frowned. "Sorry, Doc. You ain't seen how Pa's been since... Well, since that man took Joe and we almost lost him. Other than working with me and Adam, Pa won't let him out of his sight."

"What has your brother to say about that – Little Joe, I mean?"

He shrugged. "That's the worst thing. He ain't said nothin'. He just minds Pa and stays close to home."

"Maybe that's because he wants too."

"But it ain't Joe! You know what I mean? It just ain't _him_." The young man drew in a deep breath. His next words sounded like a confession. "I'd of done the same thing, Doc. Today, with Butch. I'd of stood back and let Joe have a go at him."

"And why is that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

" 'Cause Joe needs to know he's all right. That he ain't less of a man for what that Wade Bosh done to him. I know Pa thinks it's love, but what he's doin is makin' little brother doubt himself. Adam knew that. That's why he let him take Butch on, so's he could have somethin' to be proud of. So's he might start to believe in himself again."

He had to admit it made sense – in a twisted sort of way.

The physician placed a hand on Hoss' shoulder. "I want you to do something for me, son."

He looked wary. "What's that, Doc?"

"I want you to go in there and sit with your brother and send your father and Adam out here to me." Paul looked toward the closed door. "Rosey and Ming-hua should return shortly with some food. I doubt either of them have had anything for hours. Hell hath no fury like a man apprehensive and hungry." He laughed at the younger man's hopeful look. "Yes, I know you're hungry too, Hoss. I'll send Ming-hua in with a tray. I ordered some broth for your brother. If he wakes, try to encourage him to take a little. Joe needs to keep up his strength as well."

"Sure thing, Doc." Hoss glanced at the door as well. "I sure hope you can knock some sense into those two. I don't like to think about Adam leavin' at all, but especially when he's this mad at Pa."

Paul palmed the brandy bottle and considered its contents. "Maybe a glass or two of this can help smooth things over."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rosey shook her head as she stepped out of Paul Martin's office. She'd delivered the food as the doctor asked and, after sending Ming-hua home to get some sleep, had gone in to check on Little Joe. Joseph's color was better and he was breathing more easily, though the child was still pale as morning mist. When she took his hand and ran a hand through his matted curls, he stirred. Joseph frowned and then turned to look at his brother Hoss, who was seated in a chair by the bed softly snoring. A smile lifted the corner of the boy's lips and he winked at her before falling asleep again.

She had no proof, but she thought he was going to be all right.

Leaving the tray she had brought in for Hoss on the night stand, she'd exited the examining room and made her way quickly through the front room and out the door. Ben and his eldest son sat in that one, on opposite ends of the doctor's desk, facing one another. Paul was there too, planted firmly between them, dispensing brandy and chastisement hand-in-hand. Both men looked contrite. It seemed Paul had managed to bandage the wound their angry words had opened.

She could only hope it was enough of a fix to keep the pair from bleeding out.

As the older woman stepped into the street, a cool breeze struck her and tossed her hair into her face. She'd forgotten it was down. So much for appearing to be the proper Eagle Station shop lady! As she twirled the thick brown locks in her fingers and formed them into a loose sort of bun, Rosey shivered. It had been a changeable May so far, blazing hot one day and cool the next. Tonight it was just plain cold.

As she stood there contemplating the irony of a man who _had_ his son and would chance driving him away for the sake of making a point, Rosey heard the sound of hoof beats. It was late and most of the town was abed, so she wondered who it was. As the man approached, she saw he had the look of a cowhand and realized he must be one of the men Ben employed. It was hard to see much more since it was night.

The man reined in his horse. His eyes went to the sign. "This the local doc's?" he asked, his voice husky, as if dry from dust.

She took a step toward him. "Yes. Why? Are you in need of a doctor?"

As he dismounted, he replied, "No ma'am. I was lookin' for Mister Cartwright. _Ben_ Cartwright."

"Are you from the ranch?"

"Tonight, I am, ma'am. My little brother was ailin' and Mister Cartwright gave us two bunks and some grub. Greg's much better and he's sleepin'." He indicated the doctor's office with a worried nod. "I was there when Ben got the note from Adam. Is the boy goin' to be all right?"

"The doctor said it would be morning before we know for sure, but I think so. Joseph Cartwright is made of stern stuff."

"That's the youngest one?"

"Yes, it is. Would you like me to let Ben know you are here?"

He hesitated and then nodded." His smile was chagrinned. "I imagine he may think I'm over-steppin' my bounds. It's just...well...since he helped my little brother, I wondered if there was anything my brother and I could do to help his boy – or maybe to help out around the ranch since they'll be a couple of men down."

Rosey began to move as she gathered her shawl about her shoulders. At the entry to the doctor's office, she paused. "Whom shall I say has come to call?"

The man removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, Ma'am. I should have introduced myself. Name's Fremont Webb, but you can call me Monty."

"Monty," she repeated with a smile. Taking a step back toward him, she reached out with her hand. "Rosey. Rosey O'Rourke."

She might have imagined it, but it seemed – for just an instant – as if the cowboy had heard her name before.

She hoped it hadn't been in San Francisco.

"Pleased to meet you, Rosey," he said at last. "You from around here?"

"Just arrived actually. My home was in the Sierras."

"Guess we're both strangers then, in a way."

She gazed into his pale gray eyes but saw nothing. No sign of recognition. Nothing to make her uneasy.

So why was she?

"I'll go get Ben. You wait here."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Monty Webb watched the handsome woman until she stepped into the doctor's office and then he turned and, taking up the reins, walked his horse to a rail and tethered it. With an eye to the window of Doc Martin's place, he crossed over to a bench close by and anchored his tired body on it. For a moment he'd thought he might have known her, but it was just the name. 'Rosey' wasn't all that common. For the life of him, though, he couldn't remember where he had heard it last or why it seemed familiar.

"Probably buried under too much trail dust," he muttered to himself.

A sound caught his attention and Monty looked up to see the door to the doctor's office swing open and Ben Cartwright step out onto the stoop. The cowboy removed his hat as he rose to his feet and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair, slicking it down, trying to look like something other than what he was – a long-time rollin' stone. Things were lookin' up. Mister Cartwright was goin' to be needin' extra hands to cover at the Ponderosa while he attended the boy. He'd wanted to sign on at the Cartwright spread to begin with, since he'd been told the pay there was the best, but at the time he and Greg had come to town, the talk had been that all the jobs there were sewed up. Monty nodded to the rancher as he descended the steps and started toward him.

From what he'd heard, the Ponderosa was about the biggest spread around. One thousand square acres, someone had said.

Big enough, he hoped, that maybe an old cowpoke like him and a brown-haired boy couldn't be found.


	4. Chapter 3

THREE

A sense of warmth on his cheek woke him. He didn't know what it was, but he knew he wanted it there. It was...reassuring. Like a thick woolen blanket wrapped around shoulders shuddering with winter cold. He turned his head into it and breathed deeply, scenting mountain air, tobacco, and a familiar blend of spices from lands far, far away.

Little Joe Cartwright's eyelashes fluttered.

Strong fingers gripped his wrist where it lay on the top of the coverlet. "Son, it's time you wake up. Can you wake up?"

He could hear the man, but he couldn't see him. Panic swelled in his breast as he realized he was in the dark. He must be...there. Back in the hold. Chained to the floor. Wretchedly sick and with no hope of escape.

Terrified, Joe began to thrash about.

"No! No! Let me go! Pa!"

The grip on his wrist tightened. Other fingers moved to his head and began to work their way into his hair.

"Joseph, listen to me! You have nothing to fear. You're home. Son, you're _home!"_

No. He'd been lied to before – and for _so_ long. This wasn't his pa, it was the man who had made him _call_ him 'Pa'. The man he never mentioned. The man he wanted to forget.

The man who wouldn't go away.

"NO!" he shouted as he continued to struggle.

"Joseph!" The tone was sharp this time. "Doctor Martin sedated you so we could bring you home. What you are seeing is not real. You're not on the _Sun Princess_ anymore Remember?" The voice continued, softer, shaken. "I came to rescue you. You are in your room. There's a light burning. Son, open your eyes and look!"

In his terror it was hard to do anything but keep his eyes clamped shut in order to deny the nightmare his life had become. But that voice – that beloved, _trusted_ voice – was telling him to open them. _Ordering_ him to, really. Habit took over. Joe opened his eyes and looked.

There it was. An oil lamp beside his bed, burning like...a lantern. Joe swallowed hard over his fear. His pa had brought a lantern into the hold of the tall shipto look for him.

To find him.

To bring him home.

The fight taken out of him, Joe fell limply back to the bed.

The hand returned to his face. "Joseph, boy, are you all right?"

He licked his lips. "Water...?"

There was movement, but no sound. A moment later he felt the rim of a cup pressed against his lips. The liquid it contained was cool. Refreshing.

Reviving.

Blinking back tears, he tried again, "Pa?"

"Yes, Joseph. I'm with you. You're safe now."

Feeling slightly chagrinned, he managed a snort and a pale smile. "Sorry, Pa. I thought..." Joe sniffed. "I forgot...where I was."

"I think we'd all like to forget where you _were._ But that doesn't matter now. What matters is you're here now. With us."

A knock on the door made them both turn toward it. Adam's head poked in through the opening a moment later.

"Everything all right, Pa?" he asked.

Joe blinked. Adam looked worse than _he_ felt.

"Everything is fine, son. You go back to bed."

His older brother ignored what Pa said and stepped into the room, stopping just past the threshold. Adam reached up and ran a hand through his tousled hair, trying to press the black waves back into place. At that moment his older brother looked more like a riverboat gambler than he ever had! It made him laugh.

Even though that laugh came out sounding like a calf bleating when it was stuck in a bush.

"That's right," Adam mock growled as the thick locks continued to elude him, rising up and falling down like a choppy sea. "Go ahead. Make fun of me."

"That's the only reason...we keep you...around, older brother," he managed as he fought a rising pain in his side. "Didn't you...know that?"

Adam came to the foot of the bed. His face was guarded as usual, but Joe could read it. He'd had thirteen years of practice.

Older brother was feeling guilty.

"How do you feel, Joe?" he asked quietly.

"Fit as a fiddle and...fine as a dandy," he replied as he resisted the urge to wrap an arm around his sore middle.

Problem was, Adam could read him too.

"About as 'fine' as you felt when that horse threw you into the fence last month?"

His lips twisted and he winced. "Just about."

Adam stared at him – so long he wished he was a snake and could slip out of his skin and make a getaway.

"I'd like to talk to Joe alone, Pa. If that's acceptable to you."

Joe frowned. 'Acceptable'? What kind of word was that? He looked at his brother and then his pa. Neither of them was smiling. In fact, they looked mean as two outlaws fighting over a single bar of gold.

Him being the gold, of course.

"Very well," his father said as he stood and took a step toward the door. "Don't overtax him."

Adam's lips flattened into a line. There was a little twitch on the right side.

 _Not_ a good sign.

"I'll take my cue from Joe, Pa."

This time it was his father's face that twitched. Up near the eye.

You could of cut the tension in the room with a butcher knife.

"You will take your cue from _me._ Five minutes. No more. And then you, young man..."

Joe felt the need to stand at attention and salute. "Yes, sir?"

" _You_ are to remain in that bed until Doctor Martin says that you may leave it. It's only by God's grace you weren't severely injured. And while there's no internal bleeding and your ribs appear to be intact, Paul has warned an infection could still develop. So you will stay put, is that understood?"

He nodded and then blew out a breath when the door closed – with a loud _thump_ – behind his pa.

"Whew! Pa sure is fit to be tied," he said as he turned toward his brother. "What's got him so all-fired up?"

Adam had moved to the side of the bed and taken Pa's seat. "He and I had a little... disagreement. It's nothing you need to worry about."

"Was it about me?"

Adam's lips pursed. One ink-slash eyebrow lifted. "Why are you so perceptive?"

That was one of Adam's ten dollar words. "Per...what?"

His older brother snorted. "Definitely not a linguistic giant, but you do have a certain way of seeing through the barriers people erect to conceal their true feelings." Adam leaned back and ran a hand over his chin. "It's uncanny."

He figured he'd let 'linguistic' go.

"You mean like how I can tell when you're lying?"

Adam's skin was pale. There were circles under his eyes. He even had a little bit of scruff, like he hadn't shaved today or yesterday. His brother sighed and then leaned forward in the seat, linking his hands between his knees.

"Joe, I wanted to apologize."

It was his turn to frown. "Gosh, what for?"

His brother's hazel eyes widened. "For what? For nearly getting you killed!"

Joe puzzled about that a moment. "Oh, you mean with Butch? How's me pickin' a fight with the school bully got to do with you gettin' me killed?"

"It has to do with it because..." His brother stopped. " _You_ picked the fight?"

He nodded his head. "Sure I did. Butch said somethin' mighty...uncalled for to Tory." Joe shifted up on the pillows and winced as pain rippled through him. "I told him to take it back or I'd take his head off."

His pa liked the word 'process'. Learning to forgive was a process. Learning to tame your temper was a process. It meant a man had to work things through. Older brother was thinkin' something through now. He could see the wheels turning in that granite head of his.

Finally Adam said, "Let me get this straight. I left you outside in the wagon and told you to stay put and out of trouble. Correct?"

"Right as rain," he nodded.

"Then Tory Jennings comes along and you decided to flirt with her in spite of the fact that you knew Butch was nearby and it might rile him?"

"Seemed the proper thing to do," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and then regretting it when they landed on his abdomen. "She's my girl, after all."

"Proper." Adam rolled his eyes. "So then when Butch comes along, instead of acting like a rational human being and attempting to dissuade him from becoming combative, you goad him into a fight?"

There he went again.

"I don't think I 'goaded' him, Adam. He called Tory a..." Truth fought with propriety. He let his voice fall to a whisper. "Butch called Tory a trug." He blushed. "You know...what that means."

Adam nodded.

"Well, I just got so mad... I guess I forgot how much...bigger...than me Butch is and I..." He hesitated. He was bein' pretty honest with Adam, but tellin' him he didn't see _Butch_ when he flew off that wagon – that it was like he was takin' down Wade Bosh – might not be too smart. "Well, I guess, like you and Pa are always sayin', I bit off more than I could chew."

Adam was processing again. This time, there was a hint of moisture in his eyes.

"You idiot," he chuckled at last.

Joe started to laugh with him, but then that 'thing' inside him rose up. "I was defending a lady's honor!"

His brother held up a hand. One tear had escaped, he was laughing so hard. "Of course, you were. Of course. I'm sorry, Joe. I'm not laughing at you. I'm just..." He sighed. "I'm just _so_ relieved."

Joe looked at the door through which their father had gone. Then he turned back to his brother. "Pa's mad at you, ain't he? For not stoppin' the fight?" He righted himself a bit more – and winced a bit more. "He's blamin' you for me getting hurt?

The laughter was gone. Adam was dead serious. "That's between Pa and me."

"No, it's not! I'm the cause of it." Joe reached over and grabbed a handful of bed linens and tossed them aside. Before his brother could stop him, he swung his legs over on the opposite side and stood up. "Look! I'm fine!"

'Fine' lasted about thirty seconds.

"Joe!" Adam was on his feet. He had him in just under thirty-five seconds – just before he would have hit the floor. "Of all the rash, foolhardy things to do!" As his brother laid him back on the bed, Adam's hand went to his head. "What's wrong, buddy?"

"Dizzy," he managed as his fingers clutched the cool sheets.

The door was opening. Joe's eyes flicked to it, desperately afraid that it was their father and the older man would take his fear and anger out on Adam.

"You two need to keep it down up here," Hoss said as he entered the room. "More shoutin' like that and you'll have Pa up here ready to tan your..." Middle brother's voice trailed off when he saw him, laying on the bed, pale and shaking. "Gosh darn it! What happened?"

"Let's just say Joe's escape attempt went a bit awry." Adam breathed out his relief as he planted himself on the side of the bed. "Get him some water, will you, Hoss?"

"Sure thing."

When Adam handed his the cup he took a big gulp and then, after older brother scolded him, sipped the rest down. When he was done Joe laid his head back on the pillow and looked from one brother to the other.

For a little while there, he'd thought he had four.

"Where's Pa?" he asked the one in the middle.

Hoss grinned. "You mean, why ain't he up here instead of me?" At his nod, his brother explained. "Pa's outside talkin' to Dan Tolliver. We been out of things for a couple of days. There's a lot of catchin' up to do."

Joe hung his head. "Because of me...again."

"Sure 'cause of you, little brother. Don't you know the world just stopped the day you was born?" Hoss replied as he reached over and ruffled his hair.

Joe made a face and batted his hand away. "Hey! Cut that out!"

"Ain't never gonna happen, punkin," middle brother said with a wink. "You're just too _gosh-darned_ cute!"

"I'll 'cute' you!" he snarled, rearing up off the pillows.

And immediately fell back to them.

"Damn," he muttered.

Hoss' blue eyes went wide as Lake Tahoe. "Don't you _ever_ let Pa hear you say that, Little Joe. If'n he does, you won't be sitting a saddle for a _long_ time."

Joe rolled his eyes as he pushed back into the pillows. "So what's up? Are you two still going up to the mining camp Monday?"

Adam nodded. "Sorry you can't come with us."

Dramatic sighs were one of his specialties. "So just exactly how long is my exile gonna be _this_ time?"

Adam snorted. "Well, your majesty, your court physician said – _if_ you behave and rest all day today _and_ let someone help you come down the staircase tonight – you could sit in the great room with us after supper."

Older brother wasn't fooling him. "What about the day after that?"

"Well, now, ain't he right pleased for the blessin's the good Lord bestowed upon him this day?" Hoss asked.

"You try bein' forced to sit in a bed all day, left all on your lonesome to do nothin' but think!" he snapped.

And instantly regretted it.

"What are you thinking about, Joe?" Adam asked softly. "Wade Bosh?"

Older brother was pretty danged perceptive himself!

"I ain't thinkin' about Bosh," he countered sourly.

"Look Joe, there's nothing wrong with admitting you're afraid. What that man did to you –"

A look of horror came over his face. There it was. That...thing...he was worried about people thinkin'. That Bosh had done something to him?

That he wasn't ever gonna be...right.

"I don't want to talk about it," Joe declared, turning his face into the pillow. "Get lost! I want to sleep."

He felt Adam's hand on his shoulder. Then older brother did something he hardly ever did anymore. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to his hair.

"You rest, Joe. I'll be gone by the time you wake up. I love you, little buddy."

Joe was already drifting. He was more tired than he realized.

"Bye, Adam. See you later."

Adam was silent for a moment.

"Yeah, bye, Joe."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hoss followed his older brother out into the hall. He was careful to pull Little Joe's door to behind him before speaking.

"You're still goin', ain't cha?"

Adam was standing, leaning against the wall; his tense form balanced on one lean muscular arm. He pivoted to look at him.

"You know I have to."

"Now what 'a you got to go and say that for? You know, Pa. His bark's worse than his bite. He's already calmed down –"

His brother shook his head. "It's not that, Hoss. I've been _here_ with Pa before. This time it's different."

"How's it different?"

Adam's lips pursed. He let out a sigh. "For one thing, _I'm_ different. Hoss, I'm twenty-five years old, but Pa treats me like some wet-behind the ears kid! It's time I was out on my own." He paused. "Worse than that, he doesn't trust me."

"I don't know how you can say that."

Adam snorted. He inclined his head toward Joe's door. " _That's_ how I can say that. Pa thinks I let Joe get hurt deliberately because I didn't care enough to stop what was happening."

There was a deep pain behind those words. Deeper maybe than any well ever dug.

"You know Pa didn't mean it."

His older brother pushed off the wall. "That's the problem, Hoss. I _know_ he did."

Seconds later Adam turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Hoss stared after his older brother for a moment and then turned his eyes toward Little Joe's room. If them two weren't two of the most cussed mule-headed people he _ever_ knew! And Pa was right there with them.

Rolling his blue gaze upward, Hoss said with a sigh, "Dagburn it, Mama! How'd I come out so sweet?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben Cartwright had just finished giving instructions to Dan Tollivar when the door to the ranch house opened and his oldest son walked out. Adam gave him a brief nod on the way to the stable and then disappeared into it post haste. His old friend offered a sympathetic look and then shrugged as if to say, 'We were young once too'.

"I'd better go talk to him," he said with a sigh.

"Hard feelin's?"

Ben nodded. "I said something... No, I _didn't_ say something I should have, the result of which is Adam thinks I don't trust him."

"That boy?" The older man shook his head. "Why, that boy's been at your side since the beginnin' Ben. How could he doubt you?"

Dan's words were the stab of a knife that went both ways.

How could _he_ have doubted Adam?

"It's that youngest one of yours, ain't it?" the wrangler asked.

Ben had been looking at the stable. He turned back with a scowl on his face. "What do you mean?"

Dan held his gaze – pinned it, in fact. "You can fire me if you want to, Ben, but I gotta say it. You just don't think straight where Little Joe's concerned. It's like you think the boy's made of glass."

His frown deepened. "Go on."

"I know that youngster's had more than his fair share of scrapes and that scares you. You keep thinkin' about how close he came to dyin' right from the moment he was born. But look at it this way, Ben – Joe didn't! Them things he's been through would have killed a lesser man, let alone a boy his age. If you ask me, you don't give Little Joe enough credit." Dan nodded at the stable. "No, nor Adam neither."

For a moment he was upset, but then he saw the wisdom of his old friend's words. Ben reached out and placed a hand on the wrangler's shoulder. "How did you get to be so wise, Dan?"

"Me? Wise? Nah," he smiled. "I just ain't their pa."

The rancher nodded his head even as tears threatened. Lifting his hand, he said, "I had better talk to Adam. I pray there is something I can do to mend the rift between us before it's too late."

"He's your son, Ben. He's part of you. He'll understand. If not now, then later."

Leaving Dan behind, the rancher headed for the stable. During the time they'd talked, Adam had saddled his horse. His son was preparing to mount when he heard him enter. He saw him pause, and then place his foot in the stirrup.

"Adam, we need to talk."

He didn't look at him. "There's nothing left to say, Pa. Your silence said it all."

Ben stepped closer and took hold of the reins. His tone was pleading. "Son, have you never made a mistake?"

Adam's lean form went rigid as he returned his foot to the stable floor. "Sure. Sure, I have. I make them every day according to you! I can't make a decision, Pa, without having you second guess me. The men laugh when I give them orders, do you know that? They laugh! Ben Cartwright's 'boy', that's what they call me. I'm twenty-five years old and they call me a boy!" Adam's lips pursed as he considered his words. "You cast a tall shadow, Pa. I'll never escape it. Not as long as I'm here."

"I thought we were partners, son." Ben spread his arms wide. "We wouldn't have the Ponderosa without each other. You built it as surely as I did." His voice clouded with anger. "You tell me who those men are and I'll run them off the ranch."

"Papa comes to save the day? Don't you see, Pa? That's part of the problem. I'll always be a little boy in your eyes – a little boy who needs looking after." His son paused. "At least you've let the reins out on Hoss and I a bit. Your pulling the bit so tight on Joe, I'm surprised he hasn't jumped the fence."

Ben felt rage rising in him. How dare his son say such a thing!? Still, at heart, he knew there was truth in his words. Adam had turned a mirror toward him and he didn't like what he saw.

"Does Hoss feel this way as well?"

Adam sighed. "It's different with Hoss. He's so big the men have treated him like one of their own since he was twelve. Besides, Hoss isn't one to seek greener pastures. He's happy bedded down in the one he knows."

"And you're not?"

His son paused. "I don't want to hurt you, Pa, but I'm not sure your dream is mine."

Adam was a handsome lad, with his wavy black hair and chiseled features. He looked so like Elizabeth and, like Elizabeth, was _so_ certain he was right.

"You have a lot of your mother in you," he said at last.

His eldest chewed his lip for a moment. Then he let out a sigh. "Pa, I know you love us – for ourselves – but sometimes I think when you look at us, at Hoss and Little Joe and me, you don'tsee _us._ You see the _women_ you loved and lost." Adam sucked in a breath. "It's like you have to hold us tight for fear of losing _them_ again."

He was stunned. "Do you really feel that way?"

Adam nodded. "Yes, I do, Pa, and that's why I have to leave. At least for a little while. I'll finish up the mining contract and the work at Mannings, and then I'm going."

When Adam's mother had died, he'd heard a thunderclap and felt it resonant through his being. He'd just heard it again.

"Where will you go?"

His oldest boy stepped into the stirrup and swung up onto his horse's back. "Somewhere where a man can cast his own shadow," he replied. "Don't worry, I'll let you know when I find it." Adam made a kissing noise and pointed his mount's nose toward the door. "I'm going to the mining camp. Why don't you let Hoss wait to come up until Joe's well enough to join us. I'd... I'd like some time with my brothers before I go." When his son sensed his hesitation, Adam said quietly, "Little Joe's not Marie, Pa. He's alive. Let him stay that way. Don't smother him with love."

Speechless, he watched his eldest son leave the stable and head out into the growing light.

At that moment Ben Cartwright knew he had been wrong. He'd thought he was doing everything possible to keep his sons safe and to protect them from harm.

And here, it seemed, it had been him who was harming them all along.


	5. Chapter 4

FOUR

Greg Webb awoke that morning in a strange place. He had a vague memory of Monty helping him into the wagon after he'd puked his guts out and that was about it. And, maybe, arriving here and being eased into a bed. Even a ranch hand's bunk had felt good after so many months in the saddle. They'd mostly finished with a big cattle drive to Montana when he and Monty had decided to cut and head southwest. It wasn't that the work was too hard. They'd had an exciting time of it on the lengthy trek to the northern state, complete with flash floods and stampedes. Along with a dozen other men, they'd moved over two thousand head of cattle to the state in order to supply a contract for beef for the Indian reservation there. The work paid well but, after they'd deliberated a bit, they'd decided to quit and head to Nevada. Word was the biggest rancher in the area, Ben Cartwright, would be needing men for a similar drive in the fall. In the years he and Monty had traveled together they'd done just about everything and he'd enjoyed just about all of it. He liked a challenge. It kept his soul at rest. When he was quiet there was something niggled at him, like an itch he couldn't scratch. Monty said to chalk it up to being young.

He wasn't so sure.

His life had been lived from pillar to post. He didn't remember much of the beginning of it. He had a ma and pa, but they were dead and were nothing more than shadows to him now. He couldn't even remember their names. He didn't think he'd had brothers or sisters, but he wasn't sure. When Monty and his older brother had taken him in, he'd been a lost and frightened boy. And while he wasn't overly fond of the older Webb brother – in fact, Monty wasn't either – the sandy-haired cowpoke was all right.

He didn't even mind it when Monty told people they were brothers.

This morning he'd risen with the birds, splashed cold water on his face, and then left the empty bunkhouse to look for the older man. One of the Cartwright's ranch hands had caught him and told him that his friend had ridden out early for the Manning place at the boss' request. The same man gave him an explanation of what all the excitement had been about the day before. It seemed that the youngest of Ben Cartwright's sons had near been beat to death. The Cartwrights were close, the hand said, and the older man wasn't about to leave that boy's side until he was well. Greg thought a moment and then chuckled. It was amazing how often things seemed to go Monty's way. He'd brought them to Nevada intending to work on the Ponderosa spread and now it seemed they would.

Greg stretched and then looked toward the Cartwright's house. It was a handsome hewn log building with a wide porch, a second story, and a bunkhouse attached as an extra wing. He'd never had much money in his life – hadn't really wanted it – but there was something about this place that called to him.

If he'd _had_ money, he thought, he would have built something like it.

As he stood there staring at the house, thinking about what he had and what he'd missed, Greg heard a sound. He recognized the turn of carriage wheels and a few moments later a handsome rig rolled into view with a woman driving it. She was dressed in a fancy striped brown two-piece day dress with a matching hat, so he guessed she had some money too. When she got closer and he saw who was sitting beside her, he _knew_ she was wealthy.

Otherwise she couldn't have afforded a Chinese serving girl.

"Whoa!" the woman said as she called the horses to a halt.

Greg looked around. There were no men in the yard, so he took it upon himself to approach her. He didn't figure Mister Cartwright would mind if he offered to help.

"Is there something I can do for you, ma'am?" he asked.

The woman was chatting with the Chinese girl. She stopped abruptly and turned to look at him. As she did, her brow furrowed. "I don't know you, do I?" she asked.

Which made him assume she was a frequent visitor.

He tipped his hat and then ran a hand through his bushy brown hair before settling it back on his head. "No, Ma'am, you don't. My brother and I stayed the night. Just woke up to find him gone." He indicated the rig. "Can I take care of this for you?"

She continued to regard him for a moment. Then, her lips twitched. "That's very sweet of you..."

"Greg, Ma'am. Greg Webb."

He took the reins in one hand and then offered her the other. The woman took it and stepped down and out of the carriage. As she did, the Chinese girl made her own way out and quickly came to her side.

He'd been to San Francisco before. He'd been just a young spark then and Monty had boxed his ears every time he looked at the pretty black-haired women standing outside of the establishments they'd sometimes pass. ' _You're lookin' at a big T there, boy,'_ he'd say. _"Nothing to do with takin' a drink, and all to do with trouble.'_

He knew Monty was right. Still, he'd been fascinated by the China girls' shimmering hair, by their onyx eyes and ruby red lips. He'd admired their small slender bodies clothed in silk and wrapped in perfection, and wondered what it would feel like to circle one of those hourglass waists with his hands. It wasn't that he had sinful thoughts – not really – though he had dreamed of those red lips touching his. In some ways China girls were like a butterflies, something beautiful and just beyond reach.

Someone cleared their throat.

Greg looked up to find the older woman watching him. She wasn't exactly laughing.

But it came close.

Holding out her hand, she said, "I'm pleased to meet you, Greg. My name is Rosey." With a slight tip of her head, she added, "This is Ming-hua, my business associate."

The young man looked from one to the other. "Business associate?"

The Chinese girl's lips quirked. Her eyes shot to the older woman. There was amusement in their black depths.

"Ming-hua sews Miss Rosey's dresses," she said.

"And about every third dress in Eagle Station!" Rosey added with enthusiasm. "Don't let her fool you. I've never met as shrewd a businesswoman. I'm just along for the ride!"

"Rosey!"

Greg stepped back as both women turned and a large powerful-looking man stepped out of the ranch house. This had to be the legendary Ben Cartwright. He was a tall man, over six feet, with richly tanned skin and a commanding presence. He was dressed much like his workers in a storm-blue work shirt with a calfskin vest and brown trousers. His hair was the color of a stormy sky – deep grey with flashes of silver. His eyes, well, they were near as black as Ming-hua's.

But not near as pretty.

After greeting the women, the rancher turned his attention to him. "You're certainly looking better than you did last night, young man," he said with an easy, friendly smile.

Greg nodded. "Thank you, sir, for the bunk."

"Have you had breakfast?"

He was a little startled. "No, sir. I hadn't really thought about it."

"Why don't you join us in the dining room then?"

His eyes went to Ming-hua. He sure wouldn't mind sitting across the table from all that silk perfection. Still, Monty wasn't here, so he wasn't really sure what to do.

"I better wait on Monty."

Ben Cartwright smiled. "You'll have a long wait, son. Monty went to talk to Joshua Manning for me. I asked Monty to double-check what supplies Josh needs and then to ride on up to the mining camp and check in to see what supplies are needed there as well. He won't be back until sundown at the earliest. I'll be sending my younger sons, well, at least my one son up to the camp in a couple of days and that way he can take everything with him at once." Something entered those near-black eyes – a kind of sadness. At first he figured it had to do with the boy who was beat up, but then the rancher said, "My oldest is there already."

"I don't know, sir," he replied. "Somehow...well...it just doesn't seem right. Me sitting at your table. I mean, you don't know me from Adam."

Ming-hua giggled as Rosey's smile broadened.

Greg frowned. "Did I say something funny?"

"My oldest boy is _named_ Adam," the rancher replied. "You'll be taking his chair."

"Oh," he said, and then laughed himself.

Ben Cartwright placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a familiar and welcoming gesture that caught him completely off-guard. "Why don't you come on in," he said. "You can meet my other sons as well as enjoy one of our cook's fine meals."

"Little Joe is already out of bed?" Rosey asked. "Did Doctor Martin say it was all right?"

The older man snorted. "You know Joseph. Doctor Martin didn'tsay it _wasn't."_

"Joseph?" Greg asked.

The older man's smile was affectionate. "My youngest. He's thirteen going on thirty and about as easily tamed as a wild stallion. You'll meet him and Hoss as well. Hoss is my middle son, he's six years older than Joseph."

"And Adam?" Greg asked.

The rancher looked him up and down. "Around your age, I imagine." When he looked uncomfortable, Ben Cartwright asked, "Is something wrong?"

He shrugged. "Not exactly, sir. I'm just not sure _how_ old I am. The family Bible was lost, so to speak. Might be twenty-four, maybe a year more, maybe less."

"Your brother doesn't remember the year you were born?" the older man asked, somewhat surprised.

"No, sir. Monty's name was in that book too," he lied, hating to do it. "He's not entirely sure either, though he's got an edge. A man who knew his parents told him he was born about the same time as the Iowa Territory, so he figures he's thirty-six."

That, at least, was true.

"That's about the same age difference between Joseph and his older brother, Adam. You two might have a few things to talk about."

"Pa."

They all turned. Greg drew a breath at the sight of the giant form filling the doorway. Monty was no slouch when it came to size, though he was tall and not broad, but this fellow was both. He had to top six foot two and looked to be the size of a grizzly on the good side of storing up for winter.

"What is it, Hoss?"

So, _this_ was the rancher's middle son. Monty had mentioned him. Greg wondered if the other two favored Ben Cartwright as this one really didn't resemble him at all.

He watched as Hoss stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You're gonna want to come in soon as you can, Pa. Joe's sittin' at the table. He ain't lookin' so good. I'm not sure how long he's gonna last."

The rancher let out a sigh. "That brother of yours. I suppose he came down the stairs on his own in spite of what I told him." As Hoss nodded, the older man went on. "Did you remind Joseph that he'd better mind himself and do as he's told if he wants me to even _consider_ allowing him to ride up to the logging camp with you in a few days?"

Hoss pursed his lips. "Yes, sir, I did. I told him that and that he looked like somethin' the cat threw back. But you know Little Joe, that there jaw of his went tight and them nostrils of his flared." The big teen snorted. "Danged, it if didn't look like he was gonna blow steam out his nose!"

Ben Cartwright shook his head. "I suppose he told you he's 'fine'?"

His son chuckled. "Yes, sir."

"You're all half-mule," the rancher sighed.

"Yes, sir," Hoss agreed quickly. "And we know which side it comes from."

The older man took a mock swing at his son. Hoss caught his arm and pulled it around his neck and drew him in close. Laughing, the pair headed into the house. At the door, the rancher paused and waved them all in.

"Come on in. You know Hop Sing. If we don't sit down to eat soon, he'll throw the bacon out the window!"

Greg remained where he was, allowing the ladies to go first. Then he slowly and thoughtfully followed. This was it. _This_ was what he'd been missing.

Family.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo  
Joe was tired of sitting up and slumping down. He felt like he was on a wagon seat bumpin' over a series of hills. For some reason today Hop Sing kept poppin' in and out of the dining room when he was least expecting it – almost like he was trying to catch him doing somethin'.

Like lying about how much he hurt.

He'd come down to breakfast on his own, sure as shootin' that once he got moving he'd feel better. Well, he didn't. He felt worse. His stomach was tight and his left side felt like someone had kicked him in the ribs – which they kind of had. He'd sit up straight as a spinster with her corset strings too tight while their cook was in the room and then slump with exhaustion when Hop Sing left. And then sit up. And then slump. He'd just got done sitting up and slumpin' one more time when the front door opened and Pa walked in with a passel of company.

Danged if he didn't have to straighten up all over again and – this time – _stay_ straightened up!

Rosey and Ming-hua were with Pa. And Hoss, of course. But the other feller he'd never seen before. He was about Adam's age from the look of it, with brown hair instead of black. It wasn't as curly as his own, but it sure was as thick and the brown waves looked just about as mutinous. The stranger was a couple of inches shorter than pa and had a thin, kind of reedy build. As he came closer and paused, waiting for the women to take a seat, Joe saw he had blue eyes tending toward green and one of those faces out of the old paintings in that book about England Adam had. He had fairly high cheekbones, a long thin nose, and small lips that pursed like they were thinking of kissin' someone.

"Joseph," his father said softly, "it's impolite to stare."

Joe blinked. He ducked his head. "Sorry, Pa."

His father continued to stare at _him_. "Are you feeling all right, son? Perhaps you should go back to bed."

He sure must look like something the cat threw back just like Hoss said.

"Pa, really, I'm – "

"Fine." His father's eyes never left him. "Yes, I know."

As Pa helped Rosey to take a seat and then shifted the chair out for Ming-hua, the young man sat down in Adam's place. He looked real uncomfortable. A moment later his father sat down too and he said, "Joseph, this is Gregory Webb."

"Hi, Gregory," he said.

The young man shifted. "Just Greg. Thanks."

He tried to hide his smile. He knew too well what _that_ was all about. 'Joseph' most of the time meant he was in trouble. He bet 'Gregory' meant that too.

"You can call me Joe."

Greg nodded. "Joe."

"Greg and his brother Monty will be helping around the ranch during your recovery, Little Joe."

He winced. Twice. First because Pa used 'Little' Joe and, second, because someone had to cover his tail.

"I'm fine, Pa, really," he protested. "I can do my chores."

"That's admirable, Joseph. Before you do that, we need to consult with Doctor Martin." He got that _look_ – the warning one out from under Pa's black eyebrows. "Unless you think you know better than your _physician_ does."

Ouch.

Greg gave him a sympathetic look. The stranger lifted a hand toward his unruly hair and used it to hide the roll of his eyes.

He liked him better every minute.

At that moment Hop Sing made an appearance. As the man from China sat a plate of bacon on the table, his eyes went right to him.

Joe sat up a little straighter. The ribs on the left side caught as he did and he tried not to wince.

Hop Sing didn't miss it. "Number three son in pain. Should go back to bed."

How'd he do it?!

"I'm fi —" Joe clamped his mouth shut. Maybe a _portion_ of the truth? "So I hurt a little," he said with a shrug. "I'm okay, really." His eyes flicked to his father. " _Really_ Pa. Adam or Hoss wouldn't let a little punch in the stomach take them out of the game."

His father didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His eyebrows said it all as they jumped toward his gun-metal gray hair. 'A _little_ punch in the stomach?'

Pa continued to stare at him for a moment as if assessing his condition, and then – with a sigh – reached for the bacon. "Why don't we let Doctor Martin decide that? He'll be here this morning to examine you."

Joe wanted to whine. In fact, he _started_ to whine. A short shake of the head on Greg's part made him think again. The stranger was right. Whining would only prove what Pa suspected as true and arguing against the doc examining him would just get him another day in bed and no trip to the mining camp.

"Yes, sir."

His father dropped his fork at his quick agreement. He'd kind of dropped his jaw too.

Rosey's eyes danced as she picked the fork up and held it out to him. "I think this is yours, Ben?"

Joe decided this was fun – until Hoss reached over and caught him in a bear hug that about squeezed the life out of him.

"How come you're behavin' yourself, little brother? Did I miss that year you spent in reform school?"

"Let me go, you big lummox!" he spat as he twisted to get away.

"Joseph!" his father cautioned.

Too late.

There was a _snap!_

A moment later – in words that would have gotten his mouth washed out with lye soap – it all went to Hell.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rosey was on her feet in a second. Little Joe had gasped and gone the color of ash. Hoss lost most of the color in his face as well. The teen looked like he could have been knocked over with a feather. Ben wasn't much better. The handsome rancher had shouted his son's name and then frozen in place, a fork full of bacon halfway to his mouth.

The next few seconds were played out in slow motion, like a magic lantern show winding down.

As Ben's fork dropped once again to the tabletop and he scooted his chair back, Little Joe made his way out of his. The look on his face... Well, the boy obviously knew something was wrong and he was scared. Tears welled in his green eyes as he turned toward his father and then went down even as Hoss reached for him. Rosey had known what was coming. She'd seen enough fights in saloons where one man had struck another in the chest or stomach area, and knew that sound. Dropping to her knees, she cushioned the boy's fall even as the light went out of his eyes.

"Good God!" Ben roared as he rounded the table and knelt beside her. His eyes met hers as he reached for his son whose pale skin was now covered with a sheen of sweat.

Rosey placed her hand on his arm and stopped him from gathering the boy into his arms. "Did you hear it?" she asked.

The rancher scowled. "Hear what?"

"Pa, I..." Hoss was nearly as pale as his brother. "I didn't mean to hurt him. You know I wouldn't do nothin' to hurt Joe."

"Of course, I know that," Ben replied. "You didn't do anything – "

"But Joe was tryin' to get away from _me_ , Pa!"

Rosey touched the young man's arm and waited until he looked at her. "Hoss, why don't you head out and see if you can meet the doctor coming in? Paul must be nearly here. Let him know Joseph has a broken rib." She glanced at the boy lying on the floor. "At least one."

In the next few seconds, a flurry of activity happened. Ming-hua rose and went to find Hop Sing in the kitchen. Hoss grabbed his hat and gun and flew out the door faster than his feet should have taken him. Greg mumbled something about offering to go with Hoss and disappeared as well. And Ben – poor worried Ben – he began to pace, walking back and forth, needing to take action but forced to inaction by a fear of moving his son.

Rosey continued to sit on the floor, holding the boy, thinking of the times she had done this for her own son – when Rory was sick, that time he'd passed out from too much heat. Tears threatened to fall as she called out, "Could you get a pillow, Ben?" When Joe's father failed to respond, she raised her voice. "Little Joe would be more comfortable if we could prop him on his side. Can you get a pillow?"

Ben stopped. He stared at his son whose breathing was now rapid and shallow. "Joseph was...fine," he said.

Rosey sighed as she reached out to brush the boy's sweat-soaked curls off of his forehead. "Obviously, Little Joe was not entirely truthful with you," she said, her words softened with an affectionate and understanding smile.

"But a _broken_ rib? How could Paul have missed that?"

She ran a hand along Little Joe's forehead, wiping some of the perspiration away. "Most likely it cracked during Butch's attack. You can't always diagnose a cracked rib as the break could be to the inside of the ribcage. You saw how he was sitting so stiffly. It was obvious Joe was in pain."

"I should never have let him come down to breakfast."

Just as the self-recriminations began, the front door burst open and Hoss flew in. "Pa, Paul's here!" he announced.

"Thank God!" Ben breathed.

The physician was placing his hat on the credenza. As Hoss accepted his discarded coat, Paul Martin took the few steps to Little Joe's side. Leaning down, he touched the boy's forehead gently, checking for fever, and then ran his hands down both sides of Joe's chest.

"Damn," he said.

"What is it?" Ben demanded.

"It's a lower rib," Paul said as he stood. "It's rare for one of those to break since they're pretty protected. Butch must have hit it just right." He sighed. "Or wrong."

"Why didn't you spot it before?" Ben's tone was accusatory in spite of what she'd said.

Paul Martin turned on his old friend. "You know full well that I don't have the ability to see inside of someone, Ben! I felt along Joe's ribs and they seemed to be all right. It was probably a hairline fracture or crack on the _inside_. It had to be causing him pain, which Little Joe _failed_ to report! When he tried to get away from Hoss, well, it was just his misfortune to have turned wrong and caused it to snap." The physician paused. "Actually it's better it happened here at home. If Joe had been on the trail..."

Doctor Martin's words hung on the air for a moment before Ben asked, "Do you want me to have Hoss carry Joseph upstairs?" Paul's hesitation made him ask another question instead of waiting for an answer. "What's wrong?"

"The rib Joe broke is anchored to the breastbone. Like I said, it's a hard one to break, but if you _do_ break it, the broken ends can cause damage to the spleen, liver, or kidneys." Paul let out another sigh. "Joe certainly _does_ have a talent for making erroneous choices."

"What do we need to do, Doc?" Hoss asked.

"I think it's best if we bind it somewhat before we attempt to move him. If Hop Sing could – "

Before Paul could finish speaking the man from China appeared. Following close behind him was Ming-hua. The pair were carrying all the trappings of the medical care Little Joe needed to receive – water, bandages, salves. As Hoss hovered nervously and Ben paced like a caged tiger, the physician set about temporarily binding Joe's ribs. Once he felt sure he had them secured enough to shift the boy, he signaled Hoss to move in. Cradling Little Joe as he would a newborn baby, Ben's middle boy bore his re-injured brother up the stairs and to his room. Ben started to follow.

Paul Martin stopped him.

"Ben, you go outside and get some fresh air. You look like you're about to follow Joe to the floor," he ordered, his tone as stern as the handsome rancher's had ever been. "I'm going to give Little Joe a dose of laudanum. You know that boy. I need to keep him still while I examine that break more closely and recheck his other ribs. He'll sleep until at least suppertime, and maybe longer."

"I should sit with Joseph," Ben protested.

"There will be plenty of time for that," the doctor replied. It was then Paul looked at her. "Will _you_ ask him to go outside, Rosey? The Ben Cartwright I know is a gentleman and would never turn down a lady," he added with a weary smile.

Rosey glanced the way Ben was staring – up the stairs – then she took a step toward him and linked her arm through his. "Come with me, Ben," she said softly. "Let the doctor do his work."

He started. "Eh?"

The older woman smiled. "Why don't you and I go for a short walk?"

Ben's concerned gaze turned to the doctor, who nodded. "Take a break, Ben. Joe's going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes. It's going to be a long day and maybe longer night."

Finally, the handsome rancher nodded.

As they stepped out the door, Ben said, "I should send someone to tell Adam."

"I can do that, sir."

They both jumped. It was Greg, of course, standing on the porch, trying to keep out of the way.

Ben nodded. "Thank you, son." He inclined his head toward a man standing by the corral fence. "Just ask Dan. He can direct you there."

Greg tipped his hat and was on his way.

"He seems like a good man," Ben said as they began to move.

Rosey nodded. "Yes, he does. We're fortunate he was here."

Ben turned to her with a slight smile curling his lips. " _We're?"_

She started and then laughed. " _You_ are, of course." After a second she added softly, "It's just...well..."

He waited and then finished for her. "You have a deep affection for my youngest."

She didn't want to think it was just because Little Joe reminded her of her own lost boy, but it could have been. Still, the more she came to know Ben Cartwright's youngest, the more that smile and unstoppable nature of his had cajoled their way into her heart.

"For all your boys," she said, and then admitted, "but, yes, Little Joe is one of a kind." Rosey lifted her head and smiled at him. "Like his father."

Ben stared down at her, and then raised a hand to chase a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "As are you," he said, his voice soft.

They'd been here at another time, right before she and Ming-hua headed for her home in the Sierras to close it down preparatory to moving to Eagle Station. She'd known then they stood on the knife's edge of falling in love.

Not quite sure what she needed to do with that, Rosey looked away toward the wooden swing at the edge of the yard. Taking Ben's hand in her own again, she drew him that direction.

"You know," she said as they walked, "when I was a little girl there was nothing I loved more than to swing. We had this old Live Oak near our place. My father found a sturdy branch and hung a wide wooden seat from it." She paused, remembering the hardships that her family had faced when they reached the town that was to become present day San Francisco. Life had been difficult, even before the illness that carried her parents away. When she was anxious or weary, she'd go out to that old swing and pump her legs and fly high over her troubles.

That's where they'd found her after she ran away from the funeral.

Ben helped her to sit and then took a seat beside her. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

"Rosey..." he began.

She shushed him. "I know," she replied as she began to pump with her legs, setting the swing in motion. "But we're not two teeners who can go and act on their emotions, are we? We both have responsibilities. I have Ming-hua and you have three young sons who need your time and attention."

"I have enough time and attention for one more," he replied.

She eyed him as she continued to swing. "Do you? After you add the thousand acres of land, the thousands of steers and hundreds of horses, the mines and logging camps, as _well_ as keeping pace with all the paperwork it entails?"

"You make me sound like one of those men whose obituaries takes up a full page of the paper," he huffed.

Rosey glanced at him. "You are."

Ben put his foot down and brought them to a somewhat abrupt halt. "No. I'm not."

She stared at him, puzzled.

"Those men are remembered for what they _did_ – for their business triumphs, their enterprising nature, for the busy-ness of their lives." He shook his head. "No, you can sum my life up in a few sentences."

"Oh?"

"Ben Cartwright. Man, loving husband to three wives, and father to three of the finest sons God ever gifted to man. He loved his Lord first, then his family, and _then_ mankind." He paused and a smile lit his eyes. "Though deeply flawed and imperfect, Ben did his best to leave a legacy of love behind."

She had never met anyone like him.

Ben rose to his feet, a little bit stiffly, as if the events of the last few days were beginning to catch up to him. As he offered her a hand, he said, "I should get inside to check on Joseph. I hope you know you and Ming-hua are welcome to stay here as long as you like. You can have your old rooms." He looked her up and down and she could see his eyes liked what they saw. "You're a little taller than Marie. I have some of her...things...if you need something comfortable to...sleep...in..."

Her thoughts weren't wicked – not exactly – but her smile was. "Ben Cartwright, you're blushing!"

"Blushing?" he blustered. "No, I'm not. It's just a little hot out here."

Rosey looked the handsome rancher up and down and let out her own little sigh.

It _certainly_ was.


	6. Chapter 5

FIVE

Adam Cartwright glanced at the sun where it hung on the far side of noon, and then turned and looked back toward home. It had been a couple of days and he'd expected Hoss, and maybe Joe, to arrive at the mining camp by this time. This mine in particular was new. It promised to deliver a good amount of various ores and even held the promise of silver. He'd been excited when it was discovered. Mines were one place where his engineering expertise was valued. He'd been proud that he could use his education to benefit the Ponderosa and maybe pay his father back a bit for its exorbitant cost.

 _Had_ been.

Today every move he made, each decision wasn't a labor of love – it was just labor.

The determined young man had made his mind up to go and now that he had, it was chafing at him to stay. Still, he knew he couldn't just up and leave. Not with Little Joe down and his father counted out since his baby brother apparently couldn't wipe his own hind end without help.

No, that wasn't fair.

Adam ran a hand over his eyes and shook his head. Anyone reading his thoughts would have believed his father was correct and that he hated his brother. He didn't. He loved Joe.

That love was a big part of why he felt he had to go away.

It went without saying that Little Joe needed their pa more than him. After all, Joe was still a boy. He needed their father's hand – his guidance – as he grew into a man. What Joe _didn't_ need was a big brother coming between them, and he'd come to see that was exactly what he was doing. He'd second-guessed his father in the situation with Butch and he'd been wrong to do so. He'd acted as if he _was_ Joe's father.

Adam snorted. Maybe he'd better hopehe never _had_ any kids!

"Somethin' funny?" a voice asked.

He turned to find Monty Webb standing behind him. He'd been grateful for Monty's help the last two days. It was amazing really, the man seemed to have a little knowledge about just about everything.

"Not really," Adam replied as he turned toward the cowboy. "Just thinking about my little brother."

"You're worried about him."

Was he? Did he _really_ think Joe couldn't wipe his own hind end?

With chagrin, he admitted, "I guess I am."

"Cute kid," Monty said as he spat some juice. "Kind of puny."

Adam nodded. He, Pa, and Hoss had enough muscle, height, and weight between them to take on just about anyone or anything. Joe on the other hand, was – to put it bluntly – vulnerable. They all knew it.

That's why they were so paranoid about him.

He shrugged. "He'll bulk out one day. Pa says he was kind of scrawny himself when he was young."

Monty snorted. "That's hard to believe lookin' at that mountain of a man."

Yes. His father was a mountain of a man, and a mountain cast a big, nearly inescapable shadow.

"You still thinkin' of leavin'?" the blond man asked, sensing his mood.

"No," he replied. "I'm not 'thinking' about it. I'm doing it."

Monty searched for and held his gaze. "Mind if I say somethin'?"

"Go ahead."

"It's all about perspective, you see. A young man like you, well, he wants to be his own man. He don't want people thinkin' of him as his pa's son, or his ma's, or even _as_ a young man. Now I ain't sayin' you're a rash kind of fellow, but young men tend to leap before they look."

Adam shook his head. "That's Joe, not me."

The older man nodded. "Right. Well, the way I see it there's two ways of lookin' at bein' in another man's shadow. The first is that you find it heavy, like a mountain of rock tumblin' on top of you. Like somethin' you need to outpace and escape."

"And the second way?"

"I spent a good many years in the desert. When your horse is lost and you're on foot and you're fightin' just to keep your head up and survive, there's nothin' finer than a shadow." He paused and then abruptly shifted subjects. "I'm figurin, with that Pa of yours, that you know the Good Book pretty well?"

"Yes," he said.

"You remember what that feller Isaiah said in Chapter twenty-five about refuge?"

Adam thought a moment. Then, he had it.

 _For You have been a refuge from the storm, a shade from the heat; For the breath of the ruthless is like a rain storm against a wall. Like heat in drought, you subdue the uproar of aliens, like heat by the shadow of a cloud, the song of the ruthless is silenced._

In other words a shadow could be a safe harbor.

Adam's lips twisted up at one end. "You don't exactly strike me as the church-going type, Monty."

"Man don't need to go to church to know God," he replied with a smile. "There's room in the saddle bag for a good book."

Adam smiled too. "I guess there is."

"Ain't changed your mind though, have I?"

He laughed. "After working with me a couple of days, you know me so well?"

Monty's light eyes glistened. "Hell, no. But I think I know your pa."

Before he could respond to that, the sound of hoof beats cut through the still afternoon air that had been disturbed before only by the sound of hammering. They were coming fast, which was not a good sign.

"Go and check on the men's progress, will you, Monty? I'll see who this is."

The blond man nodded and turned on his heel. As he disappeared into the mine the rider appeared.

It was Monty's brother Greg.

"Is something wrong?" Adam asked as Greg dismounted and headed for him. The young man was winded and his horse looked like he'd been riding hard.

"Yeah. Sorry it took so long to get up here. I got stuck helping some folks whose wagon broke down and was blockin' the road. Took me 'til dark, and then I had to wait for the morning light." Greg took off his hat, beat it against his thigh to dislodge the dust, and then plunked it back on his disorderly brown hair. "Your pa sent me up to let you know Little Joe's hurt."

Adam was confused. He already knew Joe was hurt. Unless...

"You mean _again?"_

Greg nodded. "Seems when that boy, Butch, head-butted him, it cracked one of his ribs. It gave way at breakfast yesterday morning."

A pit opened in his stomach. _He_ had caused this. Him, and his meddling!

"Good Lord! Is he going to be all right?"

The young man shrugged. "The Doc seemed to think so. He's a tough kid. I'm sure he'll okay."

"Because you know my brother so well!" Adam snapped, and then instantly regretted it. "Sorry, Greg. I'm just worried about Joe."

Greg smiled. "It's no skin off my nose. I know all about older brothers." He paused and then asked, "You want me to take any word back, or are you coming yourself?"

Adam thought a moment. "Tell Pa I'm going to finish up what's important here and then I'll come home."

Yes, he'd go home – for a bit. He needed to see for himself that Little Joe would be all right. There was no way he _could_ leave without knowing. Pa wasn't aware of it, but before he'd left the ranch house, he'd secured everything he needed in a wagon and had one of the hands drive it up ahead of him. It was his intention to take off for parts unknown once the work at the mining camp was done.

It had not been his intention to go back home.

Greg nodded. "Mind if I get some water and grub and say 'hello' to Monty before I go back?"

He nodded. "You do look tired. Go ahead."

"Thanks, Adam."

As Greg walked away, Adam considered the words Monty had said to him. Maybe he _had_ misjudged his father. After all, it was a known fact that Pa and Little Joe had a lot in common and that included a rather short fuse. It didn't change his mind about going, not really. He still felt that – for the family as well as himself – it would be for the best. He was all too aware of what happened when there were two bosses. Mostly mistakes.

Like what had happened with Little Joe.

No, he'd still go, but he wouldn't take off without saying goodbye or working with his father to make sure the tasks that were his were allotted to other trustworthy men. He'd go home and wait until he knew Joe was all right and then he'd take off.

Then, once he had the Ponderosa out of his system, he'd decide whether or not he was ever coming back.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rosey O'Rourke heard the sound of horse's hoofs beating against the packed earth of the ranch house yard. She rose from the settee where she'd been reading and went to the door. Opening it, she looked out. The man who had ridden in was already off his horse and headed for the watering trough. When he caught sight of her, he tipped his hat and indicated it.

"Mind if I water my horse?"

She'd heard Ben give permission to strangers enough times. "Go ahead."

The man was tall and lean. His scruff of a beard was thick with trail dust as were his red shirt and blue janes. He had a black bandana tied around his throat and his wiry sheep's wool gray hair was topped with a black Stetson.

"Day's gettin' hot," he said as he removed the hat and dipped his head under the water coming out of the pump. With a shake of his graying mane, he replaced the hat and turned toward her. "My horse and me thank you, ma'am."

Something about the stranger – she could not say what – was unsettling. It might have been the way his left hand lingered near his gun, or the fact that the brim of his hat masked his eyes. Or maybe it was just the way he looked at her, as if sizing her up. He'd made no threatening move or done anything to alarm her, but alarmed she was.

She wished Ben was here instead of upstairs watching over Little Joe.

The man's next question only intensified the feeling. "You got a husband around?"

Rosey hesitated – about a second. "Yes, he's in the house. So is my son."

The man's pale eyes – they were as gray as his hair – flicked to the open door behind her. "All right if I talk to him?"

She shook her head. "Our youngest has been injured. He's tending to him."

He nodded his understanding. "Then maybe you can tell me what I need to know, ma'am. Have you seen two cowpokes riding through these parts? Tall fellow with blond hair, goes by the name of Monty. Got a young'un with him, name of Greg."

Rosey hesitated. What should she say?

After a moment's consideration, she replied, "A pair like that rode through. They didn't say where they were going. May I ask why _you_ are asking?"

The lips below the hat brim curled in a smile. "Sure can. They're my brothers. I'm trying to catch up to them."

Greg was twenty-five and she'd placed Monty in his mid to late thirties. This man looked like he was forty-five or more. She supposed it was possible.

"Ain't got the same Ma if you're wonderin'," he added.

"I'm sure it's none of my business."

The stranger snorted. "Out here, a woman facin' a man alone? It's sure as hell your business."

"Rosey, is there a problem?"

She turned and with relief found Ben standing in the doorway.

"Darling!" she exclaimed, walking up to him and pleading with her eyes for understanding. "This man has come here asking about Monty and Greg Webb. I told him I wasn't sure where they were."

She saw the dark brows lift. She doubted the other man did.

Ben slipped his arm around her waist. "Rosey wasn't aware I hired the pair and sent them out on a job. May I ask what you want with them?"

The man hesitated, then he reached up and removed his hat. Rosey held her breath, wondering if he would be familiar.

He wasn't.

At least, well...

She didn't _think_ he was.

"Name's Finch. Finch Webb. Pardon my dust, Mister. I been on the trail for more than a month now looking for those two yahoos. We was just comin' off a big cattle drive and lost track of each other at the corner of Idaho and Nevada."

"Monty didn't mention anything about an older brother," the rancher countered.

"I bet you didn't ask neither."

Ben chuckled. "No, I didn't."

Finch's eyes went past them to the house. "You say you got a sick young'un?"

"It's nothing contagious. The boy has a broken rib."

"Oh, I ain't worried about contagion. Been exposed to just about everythin' on God's green earth that can kill a man and made it through. I was just wonderin'. Weren't too long ago Greg was a little scallywag." Finch returned the hat to his head and anchored it, once again, over his eyes. "If you could just tell me the way they went, I'll be going after them."

Ben thought a moment. "Actually Greg is due back here any time. He left night before last to run an errand for me. Why don't you come inside and join us for supper and then you can wait in the bunkhouse. You look like you could use a good meal."

The man smiled. It was an odd little smile that lifted the corners of his lips but made it only partway to those shadowed eyes.

Rosey shivered.

She hoped Ben knew what he was doing.

"You won't get any argument from me," Finch replied. "Thank you, sir. Ma'am."

"Ben will do." He glanced at her. "This is Rosey."

"Rosey. I heard that before. That 's a right beautiful name, ma'am. Just right for a beautiful lady. One I only heard a couple of times before."

Her eyes narrowed. There was something about the way he spoke... No. She didn't know him. Everything that had happened just had her on edge.

"Thank you," she said at last.

"The wash house is over there. Go and get cleaned up and then come on inside," Ben said. "Supper will be ready in about a half an hour."

"I owe you one," Finch said and, with another tip of his hat, was gone.

Rosey let out a big sigh of relief.

"Is something wrong?" Ben asked her.

What could she tell him? She didn't like the _smell_ of the man?

"No, nothing. I'm just a little weary."

She felt Ben's strong hand on her back, supporting her, turning her toward the house. As they reached the door, he said – a hint of humor in his near-black eyes, "You know, Mrs. Cartwright, your husband is a very jealous man. He might just beat the daylights out of that fellow if he catches you talking to him again."

Rosey turned to look back. Then she stepped across he threshold.

She certainly hoped Ben didn't have a need to do just that!

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Boy sit up and cough!"

"Ah, Hop Sing, leave...me alone. I just wanna sleep."

"Boy no sleep. He sit up. He cough like doctor ordered!"

Joe moaned. It hurt enough just to sit up. Coughing was worse.

"Ain't you got a meal to...serve or something?"

"Serve meal after boy cough!"

"Maybe I'll just...cough all over your meal!" he threatened.

"Boy not allowed at table. Boy _velly_ sick for two days. Engage in foolishment. Break rib. Only have self to blame!" Joe felt a hand on his pillow. He knew what was coming next. It would be pulled out from under his head if he didn't move. "Number three son of Mister Cartwright sit up now!"

"Okay, okay..." Joe drew a breath as he readied his body and then, anchoring his hands by twisting the linens in his fingers, pushed himself into a half-seated position. "There! Are you happy?"

"Not sit high enough."

"I don't see no mountain in this room, do you? This is as high as I can climb!"

"What's all the ruckus about in here?" a cheerful voice asked even as Hoss' head appeared in the crack between the wall and the door. "You givin' old Hop Sing trouble, little brother?" he finished as he entered the room.

"He's givin' _me_ trouble!" Joe shouted. "Don't you know I got a broken rib?!"

"Well, if he didn't, it's a sure thing old Hop Sing does now!" Hoss replied. He crossed to the bed and looked at him where he was lying halfway down the pillows, all scrunched up like a badger trying to fit into a rabbit hole. "You need some help, little brother?"

Joe boxed Hoss' arm away. The effort sent waves of pain through his tired body and set him to shaking.

"I can do it...myself..."

"Sure you _can_ , Little brother. But there's no need to." Before he could say anything, Hoss swooped in and reached around him. Locking his arms under his armpits, he lifted up.

Everything went black for a second.

"You okay, Little Joe? I didn't hurt you none again, did I?"

Joe wanted to shout 'YES!', but he heard the hurt in Hoss' voice. His brother was blaming himself for the busted rib, even if it was Butch's fault.

"I'm...fine," he managed through gritted teeth. "Now get off me, you big ox!"

"Number two son not let go," Hop Sing ordered. "Not until number three cough!"

"Oh, for the love of – "

"Is there a problem, young man?"

Joe froze. Hoss froze. Even Hop Sing looked chilly.

"Hi...hi, Pa." Joe said sheepishly. He looked to his older brother. Hoss just shook his head. "Hoss...was just, well, helping me...into position so I could cough. Weren't you...Hoss?"

"Sure was, Pa." Hoss's big hand moved to his back and his voice took on a hidden meaning. "I was just thinkin' about poundin' him a bit to get things goin'."

Joe's eyes went wide with alarm. It was what they all needed.

Pa let loose with a long, loud laugh.

"You two. You are incorrigible!" the older man said, wiping away a tear away. "What am I going to do with you?"

As always, Hop Sing had the answer.

"Mister Hoss go to table and eat! Mister Ben too!" The man from China pointed a finger at him. "Little Joe cough!"

"Every...hour?" he asked, knowing that was the doctor's instruction.

Hop Sing crossed his arms and scowled. "Every hour. Keep boy from getting pneumonia."

"Even...over...night?"

"Over night too," his father replied.

Joe looked from one warden to the other.

It sure was going to be a long one.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben Cartwright took his seat at the table. His eyes lingered for a moment on his youngest's empty chair and then sought out Hoss who was opening the door. He heard his son welcome their guest and then watched as Finch ambled his way over. Like his sons, Finch, Monty, and Greg Webb bore little resemblance to each other, though he could see something of a familial resemblance between the older two. With their ages being so disparate, it was likely there were at least two mothers. Such was the way of the west where the life a man chose was a hard one for a woman to survive.

"Evening, Mister Cartwright," Finch said as Hoss directed him to the end of the table. "Thanks again for the invite to supper."

"You're welcome."

"We three it?" Finch asked as he sat down.

Ben had just finished arranging his napkin on his lap. He looked up and said, "No, though my son, Joseph, will be eating in his room, Rosey and Ming-hua will be joining us. They are our guests at the moment."

As if on cue the two women made their appearance at the top of the stairs. One of his hands had gone into town the day before to retrieve some of their belongings. Both had changed clothes. The long silk coat Ming-hua wore was cut of a deep blue cloth and hand-embroidered with a field of elegant spring flowers. She wore it over a pair of trousers. Rosey, well... Rosey was simply stunning in a deep crimson satin day suit with a plunging neckline.

The pair were a vision.

"I suppose it isn't polite to whistle," Finch said as he rose to his feet along with him and Hoss.

Both ladies moved to the table. Ming-hua sat in the chair Joseph usually filled while Rosey took the seat opposite. Hoss helped her to sit down and then took his place beside her. Ben noted with pleasure that Finch did the same thing with the young Chinese woman, showing he accepted her without question.

After that, the food was served. The conversation was subdued, partially due to his own fatigue and the fact that there was a stranger at the table. Still, they had a good time and walked away feeling satisfied. As Hoss took a tray up to Joseph's room, the rancher directed his guests into the great room and then followed. He thought, perhaps, a bit of brandy might loosen tongues and liven things up. Eventually Finch began to ask questions and Rosey told him about her recent move and opening the millinery. There were times, while she was talking, that he caught an odd expression on her face, almost as if she were reluctant to share.

He decided he would have to ask her about it in private later.

It took more to coax Ming-hua out of her shell. When Finch asked her a direct question, the lovely young woman hemmed and hawed and then found a reason to join Hop Sing in the kitchen. Freedom was still a new concept to the once China girl. Ben hoped in time she would catch hold of it and run with it for all she was worth. There was much Ming-hua could contribute to Eagle Station society.

Much that she already had.

A short time later, after Hoss had returned and engaged Rosey in a games of checkers, there came a knock at the door. His middle son rose to answer it, but he waved him down and headed over himself to see who it was. Before he could get there, the knock sounded again, so whoever was outside was in a hurry. When he opened the door, he knew why.

The impatience of youth.

"Good evening, Greg," Ben said as he opened the door wide enough for the young man to step in. "I expected you yesterday. Did you make it to the camp all right?"

"I sure did, Mister Cartwright," Greg answered as he took off his hat. "It took longer than I hoped. I had to help an old couple on the way up. Wagon broke down. Then I stayed a while to visit with my brother and take a short rest. I hope you don't mind." He paused. "Adam said it would be all right."

He wasn't about to second-guess his oldest at this point. "How was Adam?"

"He's heading this way shortly. Said he wanted to finish up a little work at the mine, but he should be home by tomorrow morning. Monty's coming with him."

Ben let out a sigh. Adam was coming home.

Perhaps there was hope after all.

"You told him about what happened to Little Joe?"

"Yes, sir. That's why he's coming. He wants to make sure his brother's all right."

Ben recognized the incomplete sentence. '...before he goes.'

"Well, thank you for riding to the camp," the older man said as he looked back toward the hearth area. "Why don't you join us for a drink?"

"Thank you, sir. I think Ill just go the bunkhouse."

"What's your hurry, kid?" Finch Webb asked as he rose and turned toward them. "Or should I say, 'little brother'?"

Ben didn't know what kind of a reaction he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't the one he got. All of the color drained out of the young man's face. Greg's brow furrowed, the action narrowing his eyes, even as his lips parted.

What the young man said surprised him even more – especially the note of challenge it contained.

"Finch. What the hell are you doing here?"


	7. Chapter 6

SIX

Something had been gnawing at Rosey from the moment she sat down in the dining room and really _looked_ at the man with the kinky gray hair sitting opposite her. She'd seen him outside before, of course, but out there – between the hat and the diminishing light – his features had been masked. Now, she could see him clearly and she was sure of one thing. She knew him.

Somehow, she knew him.

It seemed to her that when she had, his hair had been dark blond instead of gray. Obviously, he would have been much younger. In her mind's eye, he was thinner too. The pale narrowed eyes and lips pulled in a taut line were the same. What she didn't remember was the scar running from the tip of his left eyebrow down almost to the bottom of his lips. That was different. Then again, that did nothing to exclude him from the _possibility_ of being whoever she thought he was.

The rest of it went a long way toward explaining why she'd thought she might have seen Finch Webb's younger brother, Monty, before as well. Though there were obvious differences – shape of face, body build – the two looked enough alike to mark them as brothers. Greg was another matter. He was as dark as they were light, with an entirely different shape and face. A different mother, too, she supposed.

At the moment Greg and Finch were at a stand-off. Neither one had moved.

"Is that any way to greet your brother?" the older man asked, his tone slightly menacing.

Greg hadn't quite found his voice again. He cleared his throat, seeking it, and then replied. "Sorry, Finch, you startled me."

The gray-haired man stepped closer and took hold of the boy's arm at the elbow. His lips curled in a half-smile as he said, "Now, little brother, you didn't think I'd let you get away from me, did you?"

 _You didn't think I'd let you get away from me. Did you?_

Rosey gasped, and then hid the cry behind a cough. When all the men in the room looked at her, she forced a smile. "Sorry. I've been fighting a bit of a cold."

She saw Ben go on the alert. He knew she didn't lie, just as surely as he knew she _was_ lying now. The rancher seemed to consider his best action for a moment before addressing Greg.

"Why don't you join us, Greg? We were sharing some brandy."

Greg's eyes were fixed on Finch's as if he had no thoughts of his own, but had to wait on his brother to supply them.

The older man's grip loosened as he circled the boy's shoulder with his arm. "Greg and me, we got a lot to catch up on. You got a bunk here, boy?"

Rosey watched the young man's reaction. It was plain he didn't want to go with him.

If Finch Webb was who she thought he was, she understood completely! Feeling guilty, she prayed Greg would accept his brother's invitation. She needed to talk to Ben alone – to let him know what she _thought_ she knew.

"Yeah, I got a bunk. Right next door," Greg sighed.

Finch's grip tightened on the boy's shoulders. "Well, then, let's you and me go and have a good long talk." As he herded Greg toward the door, the gray-haired man turned back. "Thank you for the dinner and libation, Mister Cartwright."

Ben was still frowning. "Come back again," he said half-heartedly.

The man smiled – a broad, generous smile – expect that it wasn't generous, it was miserly.

And all about _him_.

"Oh, I will, Mister Cartwright, I will, and real soon." Finch glanced at the boy he had pinioned to his side. "And thanks for looking out for my little brother here. Who knows what kind of trouble he could have got himself into without you kind folks around?"

Rosey felt a new lease on life when the door closed behind them. She reached out with a hand to catch the back of the settee to steady herself.

Ben was at her side in an instant to keep her from falling.

"Rosey. For Heaven's sake! What is it?"

Words failed her. Her inner eye was trained on a horror she couldn't express. She could see the tall lanky man with the curly blond hair still, his legs spread wide, straddling her supine form where she lay on the floor of the saloon, her lip bleeding; breathing hard. She'd never known his real name. He went by Strong Arm Sten and had been the bouncer at the palace where she'd sold herself. Sten was one of the reasons she'd run from the life she had known. He'd made it clear that he would have her or else. She had laughed it off – not taken him seriously.

The result of which had been a dead husband and son.

Ben moved her to the settee and then sat beside her. His hands were the hands of a working man, slightly rough and powerful. She fell into their strength as he circled her with one arm and cupped her cheek with his hand.

"Rosey? What is it? Can you tell me?"

Could she?

 _Should_ she?

She wasn't entirely sure this man was Sten and yet, who _else_ could it be? She knew those cool, calculating gray eyes, that line of a mouth, and the tilt of that steel-wool head. Sten had wanted her when she'd worked the upper boxes, but it hadn't been allowed. When she chose to leave because of Pat, the bouncer had come to her, sure she would choose him over a city doctor – certain she was as infatuated with him as he was with her. He went too far and ended up in prison before taking his revenge and then, simply disappeared. How had he found her?

 _Why_ had he found her?

"Rosey!" Ben's sharp tone brought her back to the present.

She blew out her fear in a puff of air. "I can't be sure, Ben, but I think I know that man."

"You can't be sure?" he asked.

It had been _so_ many years.

She squared her shoulders and turned toward him. "He's changed. Like you, like...me. But if I _am_ right, Ben, then you, your sons, and everyone in this house is in danger!?"

Her voice had taken on a slightly hysterical tone. It brought Hoss to their side. "Somethin' wrong, Pa?"

Ben looked up at his son. "There may be. Rosey thinks the Webbs have not been entirely honest with us. She believes she knows the oldest one."

Hoss' eyes flicked to her. "From before, Miss Rosey? If you pardon my bringin' up somethin' what ain't my business in the least."

She nodded. "Yes, from...before. I think he's... I believe..." She straightened up and drew in a deep breath. "I believe he's the man who murdered my husband and son."

Ben's grip on her tightened. "Did _he_ recognize you? Rosey, do you think he did?"

"I'm sure he did," she answered, her voice a pale whisper of what it should have been. "If I knew him, he _had_ to know me."

"How do you s'pose Greg's mixed up in all of this, Pa?" his son asked. "He seems like such a nice feller. Monty too."

Rosey noted the wheels turning in Ben's agile brain, weighing the risk to her against the risk to his family. "Why don't you go out, son, and see if you can find the pair of them," he said. "Make up some excuse about checking on tomorrow's work schedule. See how Greg's doing."

The big man nodded. "Sure, Pa. Back in two ticks."

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Ben Cartwright studied the trembling woman before him. Rosey's lightly tanned skin had gone pale as bone against the deep crimson background of her dress and she was shaking like a leaf in a winter wind. He tore his eyes from her to glance at the door through which Hoss had gone, wishing for all the world that he had his other two strong sons at his side instead of one hurting upstairs and the other hurting at the mining camp. Most of the men were out with the herd. He'd left only a skeleton crew at the house. There had been no threat. No danger. Or so he thought.

How could he have been such a fool? There was always danger in the West.

Taking Rosey by the hand, he pulled her to her feet. "We need to get you to a place of safety, you and Ming-hua. Go upstairs and pack a few things while I tell Hop Sing to ready the wagon. He can drive you into town."

He started to release her, but her fingers wouldn't let go. "Ben, I am so sorry to have brought this trouble to your house."

Rosey's face was turned so the firelight struck it, erasing the years, and though her look was troubled, it was also, well, noble in a way. With a smile, he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand and then bent down to plant a chaste kiss on her forehead.

"All you have brought to this house is a gentleness that has been missing for a long time," he said as he straightened up. "It's pretty obvious Finch's intentions where his young brother is concerned are not on the up and up. Even if you hadn't been here, there'd be trouble."

"But he's following me!"

"Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't. Perhaps he was following Greg and Monty and knew nothing about your presence." Ben touched the soft stuff of her hair. "Don't borrow trouble, Rosey. You know what the Good Book says. Let the days worries be sufficient for the day."

Her hand covered his and, for a moment, she leaned her head against his chest. With her that close, he caught a hint of rose water, as well as vanilla. Like petals plucked, the last eight years fell away and he was standing here again, in the home he had made for the mother of his last son, holding her...cherishing her. Cherishing Marie.

Cherishing Rosey.

Ben started to say something but her fingers flew to his lips. With a shake of her head that said, 'not now', Rosey moved out of his arms and up the stairs, disappearing just as surely as Marie had.

In a moment, it was like she had never been.

At that same instant the front door flew open. Hoss rushed in and then slammed it shut behind him. When his son turned to look at him, Ben saw blood dripping from his lip.

"We got us a passel of trouble, Pa!"

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Adam and Monty were slowly making their way back to the Ponderosa. They'd dawdled more than they should have before heading out and, since night had fallen, had decided to make camp even though they were just a few hours from home. There was no real hurry other than his concern for Joe. The report Greg had given him made it sound like things were under control. Still, he didn't like Paul Martin's ominous words that the broken end of Joe's rib could puncture an organ. He knew the prescription to prevent that would be rest, and knew just as well that 'rest' wasn't in his little brother's vocabulary. Their father was great with Joe, but he had a tendency to run out of patience just about as quickly as their little brother did. Pa counted on him to run second-string and make Joe listen.

Pa counted on him.

Adam blew out a sigh and reached for the coffee pot.

"Sounds like you got the weight of the worlds on your shoulders," Monty said softly.

He started to protest, but then relented. With a half-smile he admitted, "I guess I do."

"Thinkin' about your family?" The blond man shifted, seeking a comfortable perch. "Or maybe more about your family _obligations?"_

"Both, actually." He took a sip of coffee. "It's a philosophical question, I guess. Where does a man's obligation to his family end and the one to himself begin?"

Monty nodded. "A friend once told me that relationships based on obligations lack dignity." The cowboy laughed. "I ain't entirely sure as I know what that means, but it sounds like it makes sense."

It did. " 'To thine own self be true,' as the bard put it," he replied.

And yet, he'd heard a man speak at college once about commitment and duty. A man he respected. He'd been a soldier during the war with Mexico and had traveled with Kearney's Army of the West. Out of all the man said, there'd been one thing that had stuck with him all these years.

' _The more obligations we accept that are self-imposed, the freer we are.'_

"Who's the bard'?" Monty asked.

Adam snorted. "According to my little brother he's a man wearing lace and tights with too much time on his hands."

Monty looked at him. "You love that kid. Don't you?"

He drew another long sip of coffee into his mouth, relishing it, and then swallowed. "Is it that obvious?" he asked with a wink. "I thought I did a pretty good job of hiding it."

"Maybe only to another older brother." Monty tossed the remainder of his coffee aside and sat up. His face grew pensive. "I'd do anythin' for that kid."

"Is it just the two of you? I mean, is the rest of your family gone?"

The blond man pursed his lips. For a moment Adam thought he'd said something wrong. Then Monty replied, "Mostly. Pa was married a couple of times before he died. First wife passed after birthing Finch, he's my older brother. The second one lasted long enough for me and Greg."

"I take it one of you looks like your mother and the other, your father."

"Yeah. Funny, ain't it? But inside, where it counts, Greg and me are the same." He frowned. "Finch's got his own ways."

Adam tossed the remainder of his coffee aside and then settled back against his saddle. "Was he with you on the drive? Finch, I mean?"

"Part of the time. He had other business and left for it was over. I s'pose Greg and me should of waited for him to come back, but we decided to strike off on our own."

"Oh?" Amusement lit his hazel eyes. "Being 'true' to yourselves?"

"You might say. We felt it was time for somethin' different, if you know what I mean? A couple of the wranglers on the drive had worked for your Pa. Sounded like a good man with a good spread and a place for a new beginnin'."

"What about your older brother? Does he mean to join you?"

"Nah." Monty slid down against his saddle and tucked his hat over his eyes. "Finch took himself off years ago to pursue his own dream. Can't complain when we do the same. 'Sides, ain't no one or nothin' means as much to Finch _as_ Finch."

For a long time Adam remained where he was, half-seated against his saddle, contemplating a cowboy's wisdom. Then, he shifted down and slept, sensing somehow that he would have need of strength to confront the coming day.

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Ben ducked as a bullet struck the front door splintering wood. Now that he was beside his son, he could see that Hoss had been in a fight. There were bruises forming on his son's cheek just above the bloody trail leading down from his lip.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Finch Webb." Hoss took a moment to wipe the blood away. "I came on him beatin' on Greg. He was mighty sore about somethin'. Strange thing was, Greg was takin' it."

A grim smile lit the older man's face. "And you took exception to that."

Hoss winced as another bullet struck. "Sure did, Pa. He'd like to have killed him."

"Ben? What's happening?"

The rancher spun to find a terrified Rosey descending the stair. Any questions he had for his son would have to wait. The fact that Finch had been discovered beating his brother might have gotten him thrown off the ranch, but there was no reason for him to pursue Hoss and open fire.

More was happening here than they knew.

"See if you can find Hop Sing. Give him a rifle," he said to his son as he moved away and toward the exposed woman. Once he reached her, he caught Rosey about the midriff and moved her over to the area of the settee. With a quick caress of her cheek, he forced her to sit on the floor by the red chair. "Stay down!"

He felt a pull on his pant's leg and looked down. "Ben, is it Finch?" she asked.

The rancher nodded. "We think so. Still, we can't be sure. It sounds like more than one gun. Now, you stay put!" he ordered as he turned back. There had been another shot – a bullet striking wood – and then...

Silence.

Into the silence came a voice. "Mister Cartwright?"

He frowned. It didn't sound like Finch. A least not what he remembered of the man's voice. Moving closer, he called back.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Open the door and I'll tell you."

"You've just put a half-dozen bullets in my front door and threatened my family. In God's name, why do you think I would let you into this house?"

"This is why," a cold voice announced.

Ben heard Rosey's gasp. He knew even before he turned what had happened.

How could he had been so foolish as to have overlooked protecting the one thing in the house that was the most in _need_ of protection?

Finch Webb stood at the top of the stairs. Joseph dangled limp in one arm.

There was a gun pressed against his son's curly head.

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Joe Cartwright cracked one eye and watched as his floppy feet struck the steps one by one on the way down the staircase. It took everything that was in him not to move or cry out. Whoever this guy was, he had his arm wrapped tight around his chest and was puttin' pressure on his broken rib. He was pretendin' now, but he actually _had_ passed out when pain erupted through him as he was snatched out of his bed. He'd come around just as they reached the landing and had quickly decided to play possum. Joe didn't know what was going on, but the scare he was gonna give his pa by appearing to be out cold would be worth it if it meant he could help somehow. Maybe he could find a way to let his pa know he was awake.

He'd sure like to.

The man who held him stopped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs. The nose of the gun worked its way further into his hair.

"Open that door, _Ben_ ," the bad man said, using Pa's Christian name when he didn't have a right to.

Joe sucked in a breath as the cold metal reached his skin. At this point – if that gun went off – he wanted it to be quick and over. He'd met a man one time who'd been shot in the head and lived.

It wasn't livin'.

"Release my son and I will," his father thundered.

Good old Pa. Takin' charge as ever. Using that voice of his as a weapon.

"I think I hold all the cards here," the man said as Joe felt the barrel of the gun shift from his hair to his temple.

Joe wanted to look at his pa. He wanted to _see_ his strength and siphon some of it right out of the older man – but he couldn't. He had to keep still. Had to stifle the groans rising from deep within him.

Had to keep his eyes closed.

"There's still a locked door between you and your men, Finch."

You tell him, Pa!

"Oh, really," Finch replied. "I seem to notice you have _another_ son missing."

Joe couldn't see his pa, but he could tell by his voice that what this Finch had just said had siphoned off more of that strength than he ever could.

Pa's voice shook as he asked, "What have you done to Hoss?"

The man holding Joe shifted his grip, bringing his arm in more tightly against his injured rib. Stars exploded behind his eyelids.

Joe bit his lip and drew blood.

"Simms!" the outlaw shouted. "Get in here!"

Joe was just _dying_ to open his eyes. It was driving him crazy that he couldn't see what was goin' on. As he hung there, feelin' helpless, he heard a series of sounds – something falling over, pans clattering on the floor, someone grunting and then, the crash of pottery. It was all comin' from the kitchen. At the angle Finch was holding him, the fringe of hair that normally lay on Joe's forehead was dangling in front of his eyes. Hoping it was enough to keep the bad man from figuring out he was awake, Joe peeped through the curls. And then wished he hadn't. A long lean stranger was dragging someone into the room.

It was Hoss.


	8. Chapter 7

SEVEN

Joe winced as that _voice_ erupted again. He'd sure hate to be Finch Webb with his Pa that angry.

"What have you done to my son?" Pa roared.

"He resisted arrest," Simms snorted as he released his grip and Hoss hit the floor with a thud.

His father was silent for a moment. Joe could just picture the older man standing there, considering everything; thinking it through and figuring out how he could keep everyone alive.

"Where are Hop Sing and Ming-hua?" Pa demanded.

Joe was worried about them too, but he couldn't take his half-lidded eyes off of his brother. Trouble was when men saw Hoss, they only saw his size and they thought they had to treat him twice as rough or hit him twice as hard as a smaller feller. He was laying so still on the floor. There was blood on the right side of his head and on the collar of the shirt he wore and on his leather vest.

A lot of it.

"The woman and the Chink are fine. Abel here paid them a visit and left them, well, a little tied up." Finch laughed at his own joke and then the bad man began to move, heading – Joe thought – for the settee. He could feel the heat from the fire on his face and figured they were just about in front of it.

A moment later he knew for sure when Finch threw him onto it.

Joe couldn't help it. He gasped as he hit.

"Leave the boy alone!" a woman's voice cried out. "Can't you see he's hurt!"

Rosey.

He'd forgotten about Rosey.

Joe caught a scent of roses and vanilla as she sat on the settee and leaned over him. It reminded him of his ma. Then he felt the gentle touch of her fingers in his hair. Again, through half-lidded eyes, he looked up at her, willing her to see that he was awake.

She didn't. She was too busy calling out the scoundrel that had ripped him out of his bed and was threatening his family.

"I see nothing has changed, Sten, or should I call you Finch? I assume that's your real name," Rosey spat. "You're just as much of a miserable excuse for a human being as you were fifteen years ago! Little Joe has a broken rib. I'd ask you how you could be so cruel, but I already know the answer to that. You are a self-serving loathsome pig!"

There was a pause. Then an amused voice said, "Nice to see you again too, _Silks_."

"What are you doing here?" the older woman demanded. "How dare you bring harm to this family!"

Finch's voice was cold. "Now, if you ask me, I'd say it was _you_ what brought the trouble to them, woman. Just like you did to your own family."

Rosey's hand was on his. Joe felt her fingers stiffen with outrage.

Pa'd kept quiet for a bit. He spoke into the silence that followed Finch's remark.

"Let me attend to my son."

For a second Joe wondered which son? Then he figured it had to beHoss since Rosey was with him.

He sure hoped Hoss wasn't hurt too bad.

"Open the door first, my little brother's waitin' outside," the bad man said. "Don't want Greg trying to climb in any windows like I did in the condition he's in." Finch paused and then added with a snort, "You know, you really should teach that brat of yours to keep his window locked."

Joe's heart plunged to his toes as his father moved toward the door. He'd been hot and had asked Hoss to open the window before he brought his supper tray down. That was how the bad man got in.

 _His_ fault again!

Rosey shifted and turned her body. She was probably watching Pa. Joe felt her breath on his forehead as she let out a sigh.

"Is there no end to your violence?" she asked, her voice hushed.

"There are three things men respect," Finch replied. "Money, power, and strength. Up until now I've only had the last one. But now, things are gonna change."

So that was it! The bad man was after Pa's money. It wasn't the first time it'd happened. Trouble was, most bad men who said they only wanted the money also wanted to leave no witnesses to the fact that they took it. Which meant all of them could wind up dead.

He had to do something!

Shifting his fingers a bit more, Joe walked them over Rosey's where they were anchored on the settee beside him and squeezed firmly.

He felt her start. Since he figured her eyes would be darting to him, Joe opened his a crack – for a second – and then shut them again. A moment later she squeezed back.

She _knew_.

"Men don't _respect_ a thug, they fear him, as they fear any man with money and power and no scruples," Joe heard his father say in answer to Finch's last statement. Pa's temper was rising, he could tell. He was mad as a bull with a stranger in his barn. "Nor do they respect men who threaten women and use children as shields."

Joe winced. He kind of wanted to show his Pa that last part wasn't true. He wasn't a child, not by a long shot. Another little squeeze from Rosey let him know that _she_ knew what he was thinking. He glanced up from under his heavy black lashes to see her give a little shake of her head.

' _Wait'_ , her eyes said.

Finch was running out of patience. "You gonna open that door, old man, or am I gonna go over and redecorate your settee with your kid's brains?"

"Ben, he means it," Rosey warned.

"Yeah, _Ben,_ you listen to the lady."

Joe heard the latch to the door being engaged and a little creak as it swung open. He also heard the audible gasp his father made.

"Greg, boy," Pa breathed, "what did he do to you?"

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As he looked at Greg Webb leaning on the jamb of the door – battered, bleeding, beaten – Ben Cartwright's fear for those within his house leapt high as a stallion flying over a corral fence. There was no doubt Finch Webb was a bruiser and a bully. From what Rosey had told him about the man, he'd been hired to _be_ a bully. He took pride in his fists and enjoyed throwing his weight around and intimidating others.

But did that make him a killer?

The older man glanced at the beautiful woman sitting beside his son. He knew Rosey blamed Finch – or Sten as she had called him – for her husband and son's deaths. Still, like many killers, the outlaw's choice to commit those murders had come as a result of deep personal desire and wrongful need. Most killings were not random. There were nearly always undercurrents of animosity between the killer and the victim.

 _Nearly_ always.

But then there was that rare man who simply liked to kill because it gave him a sense of power – a sense of immortality in way, he supposed, because he had beaten death to the gate.

He was beginning to think Finch Webb was such a man.

Ben's near-black eyes left the battered young man leaning on the door frame to fasten on the two unknown men who waited outside the house, holding the reins of several horses. Then it went to his middle son, who lay silent on the floor. It appeared the bleeding had slowed. His prayer was that the wound was to Hoss' scalp and as such had bled a good deal without being too deep or too harmful. Of course, there was always the chance of a skull fracture. The boy needed a doctor and he needed one now. From Hoss, his paternal gaze shifted to the settee where his youngest lay, also unmoving. Joseph would have need of Paul's ministrations as well. The trip down the stairs in Finch's arms and that drop onto the settee couldn't have done his broken rib any good.

Finch's voice broke into his reverie.

"What'd I do to him? Greg there got too big for his britches," the outlaw snorted. "Thought he didn't need old Finch anymore. He and Monty took themselves and skedaddled away from that cattle drive 'fore I knew anythin' about it." Ben watched as the former bouncer took a step away from the settee – and Rosey and Joe – and moved toward his brother. When he spoke again, his voice took on a sinister tone. "You ain't _never_ gonna get away from me, little brother."

Greg's jaw grew tight. His fingers formed fists. "I'm not your brother!" he shouted, his face livid. "Stop calling me that! I _couldn't_ have a brother like you. I _hate_ you!"

There was a stunned silence in the room. As he and Rosey exchanged a glance, Finch began to make a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth.

" _Tsk tsk_. You shouldn't ought to have said that, boy. Now I'm going to have to kill all these nice people."

Ben's heart went to his toes. Whatever Greg and Finch's story was, they had just become an inexorable part of it.

"The boys are unconscious," he countered quickly. "Neither Hoss nor Joe heard anything. There's no need to harm them further."

The villain was enjoying himself. "I s'pose I _could_ let them live. They ain't in any shape to come after us." Finch turned then and addressed himself directly to Rosey. " _You're_ coming with me."

She shot to her feet. "I will not!"

Finch sneered. "I bet you'll change your mind when I put a bullet in someone's brain 'cause you won't do what I want."

"You spoke earlier of money and power," Ben interjected. "I have both."

The outlaw's fingers tightened on the trigger as the gun swung toward him. "What of it?" he snapped.

"I can give you both. The men's payroll is due at the end of the week. There's a large amount of money in my account at the Carson City bank that I have yet to draw. I'll take you there. You can have it." Again his gaze went from Hoss to Joseph, both so very young and so very still. "If you promise to leave my sons alone."

"You ain't tryin' to bargain for her?" Finch asked, waving his gun at Rosey.

He met her gaze. The older woman forced a smile and shook her head. Her eyes went from Joseph to Hoss. Protect _them_ , they said.

"Would it matter if I did?" Ben replied as he turned his attention back to Finch.

The outlaw thought a moment. "Nah," he scoffed. "Would have been fun to watch you beg, though."

"You are a sick man."

Finch shrugged. "Maybe. But that's better than you." The outlaw lowered the gun so it was pointed at his abdomen. "You're a dead man, money or not. You know that, don't you?"

"I don't care about the money. I only care about my sons."

Ben winced.

As soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake.

There were wheels turning behind Finch Webb's pale cold eyes – visible wheels rolling over his hope that he and his boys might come out of this alive. "So, you and me and Rosey hit the road to Carson City, go to the bank, and just like that you give me all your money? You ain't gonna try to escape or nothin'? Just gonna hand it all over to me and let me shoot you after?"

"You have my word."

The outlaw snorted. "Ain't a man I ever met that their word meant anythin' when it came to stayin' alive." To Ben's horror, Finch moved toward the settee. "I just think we'll take us some insurance along."

"No!"

Finch stood over Joseph's prone form, his gun pointed, this time, at the boy's chest. "Your choice, Cartwright. He goes with us, or he stays right here – permanently."

Rosey had backed off until she stood near the red leather chair. He knew the look in her eyes. She felt she had to do something.

Ben shook his head. ' _Don't!',_ he projected. Then to Finch he said, "The boy is injured. He will only slow us down."

"I can always shoot him and leave his carcass along the way if he does."

Such callous disregard for life was not new to him, but that made it no less shocking.

The rancher's eyes flicked to Hoss, hoping to spot movement – some sign that his middle son was coming around and might be able to help.

But there was nothing.

"Simms, you get over here," Finch ordered. "Take Rosey and Greg out to where the others are waiting."

After his outburst Greg had remained by the door, staring daggers at Finch but seemingly incapable of making any move to better their situation.

If only he could have counted on him...

Finch shifted his gun to his right hand. With his left, he reached down and took hold of one of Joseph's arms and then –

And then Finch was on the ground and Joseph was scrambling over him, stretching out his hand toward the outlaw's fallen gun. Abel Simms had made it to the door with Rosey. Webb's henchman stopped, stunned into inaction for the moment.

Ben could identify with him. It took him a few seconds to react as well, but that didn't stop him from taking out Finch's man and then slamming the door in the face of the rest of his gang before they could further violate his home.

Locking it, he turned back to save his son.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe stretched his arm out toward the bad man's gun. He sucked in air as it put a strain on his ribs. Both the bones and muscle protested like a son of a gun, sending wave after wave of stabbing pain through him. Pa had taught them that pain was a friend. _'It's your body's way of telling you something is wrong_ ,' he'd say. ' _You should listen to it.'_ Well, Joe was listening to it now and what his pain was telling him was to curl up and die.

Of course, if he gave up now, that was exactly what he was _gonna_ do.

Finch Webb might be near old as his pa, but he fought like a man Adam's age. He was tough and mean and willing to do anything it took to win. Joe could see him angling, trying to raise his leg so he could put a boot in his side and drive that broken rib straight into his innards. He couldn't let him. It was gonna hurt like Hell, but he had to move. Sucking in air, he twisted to avoid it, straining his already broken rib, and very distinctly felt something move.

It didn't matter. There was no time to think about it.

He had to take out Finch.

Joe heard a sound behind him. Someone had gone down. He prayed to God it was one of the outlaws and not his pa. As he continued to struggle, clawing at Finch's fingers and fighting for the gun, Joe had a sudden thought. Adam! Older brother was due home at any time. He wouldn't know Finch's men were out there. Someone _needed_ to warn him. Maybe Rosey or Pa. Maybe him, if he could get away.

Maybe he'd better pay attention to staying alive.

Finch was winning. He'd done real well at first, but the bad man was a lot bigger and a lot stronger than him and the only thing that had given him any edge in the beginning was surprise. Joe gritted his teeth against the pain in his side as he drove his heel into Finch's knee, getting a satisfying yelp for his trouble. Problem was, there weren't no surprises left. There was just him – a thirteen-year-old kid, only half there – fighting a monster bent on killing them all.

He couldn't let that happen.

Gathering breath and strength, Joe stretched out as far as he could.

His fingers touched metal!

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben ordered the listless Greg to take Rosey into the kitchen to free Hop Sing and Ming-hua, and then barked a further order that he return and see to Hoss. He didn't know what was wrong with the young man, but was pleased when he saw Greg respond to his command. As he shouted out the words, the rancher headed for the hearth area.

He didn't know what he could do, but he had to do something. One wrong step could mean Joseph's death. As it was, the way the boy was stretched almost to the limit was likely to drive that broken rib in and puncture one of his vital organs. Ben swallowed hard, feeling impotent as he stood and watched his young son fight for his life. He'd felt helpless before, but never so helpless as he did at this moment. Joseph was before him, but there was little he could do to help him. If he tried to interfere, he might cause the boy more harm. The rancher's eyes went to the gun rack and then to the credenza by the door. Hoss's weapon lay there. Still, even if he got hold of it, he couldn't shoot. Joe and Finch's bodies were too closely entwined.

In the end, it seemed there was only one thing he could do – throw himself into the fray and pull them apart, danger be damned.

Determined, Ben moved to the other side of the settee.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He'd touched the gun! Now Joe struggled to catch hold of it, his fingers stretching out as far as they would go. They encountered the handle and wrapped around it and then one sought the trigger. Trouble was, Finch had hold of the gun too. The bad man's larger hand surrounded his own. Finch was fighting for control of it – picking the weapon up and banging it and his fingers against the floor in an attempt to make him drop it. Picking it up and slamming it against the floor. Picking it up. Slamming...

Without warning the gun went off. A cloud of acrid smoke rose toward the ceiling. Into the silence that followed there came a sound. Well, two, really. A grunt. Then, a word.

"Joseph..."

Since he'd been a little kid, he'd had nightmares. They were about all kinds of things – gully washers, cattle stampedes, wild storms; rustlers and robbers. There was only one constant in them. His father always died.

Just like Pa was dyin' now.

After the bullet flew out of the chamber everything went into slow motion. Pa looked down. His hand moved toward his waist. Absurdly, Joe noticed Pa was wearing one of his best shirts. After all Rosey was in the house and they'd just finished eating supper. Pa always spruced up for supper, especially when there was a lady in the house. His father had put on a pair of black pants and a white shirt with a black string tie. Joe wished now that he'd been wearing all black like brother Adam sometimes did, because above the waist band, on that bright white field, the color red was spreading like a blight.

Pa's lifeblood was pouring out.

A noise to his left reminded Joe that he wasn't alone. He looked up to find Finch Webb starin' down at him. The bad man grimaced as he turned the gun so he held it by the barrel. He was breathing hard and his eyes had grown cold as a blue norther.

"Punk!" he snarled as he brought the gun down.

And Joe knew no more.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam glanced at Monty where he rode beside him. He'd awakened after only a couple of hours of sleep with a keen desire to go home. The cowboy had humored him, saying he'd be just as happy to drop into his bed for the rest of the night as sleep on the ground. They'd hit the road somewhere around ten and by eleven he was feeling foolish. There really was no hurry. While he was concerned about Joe, that concern didn't run to real fear. He'd broken a few ribs in his time and so long as the kid kept quiet and followed Doc Martin's orders, he'd be okay in six weeks or so. The inaction might drive Little Joe to distraction – it would drive them _all_ to distraction – but he'd survive. Life on the Ponderosa would return to normal.

Or would it?

He still hadn't made up his mind whether or not to stay.

Monty's words had swayed him, he had to admit. Obligation. Responsibility. It was so easy to think of those words as negatives. But they were only that when one considered them from a self centered point of view. Adam's lips twitched and his dimples deepened. Ah, that was the rub, wasn't it? What was life about – pleasing and serving one's self or pleasing and serving others? He knew what his father would say. First of all the older man would quote the Good Book, citing passages like the one in Philippians that said ' _Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves. Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others._ ' Then he would remind him that what life here was about was bringing glory to God through one's actions and choices, and not about putting one's own happiness before others. How often had he – on his own volition – quoted to someone that ' _No man is an island'_? Of course, he'd been thinking of belonging to the greater body of all men, but did it hold true as well for a man's family? Was Adam Cartwright an island of his own within a cluster of Cartwrights, free to loose the chain and float away when the whim took him? Or, was he duty-bound to remain?

Adam winced and ran a hand over his forehead. Then he sighed.

"You think too much, friend. You know that, don't you?" Monty asked, tight-lipped. "A man's brains ain't any different from his muscles. Use 'em too much, you'll wear 'em out."

He snorted. "I was under the impression that the more you used your muscles – or your brain – the more fit they became."

Monty glanced at him. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," he replied.

"Tell me that in another ten years."

They were about a mile out from the house. It surprised him how pleased he felt to be going home. Maybe it had to do with the way he'd left, pouting like a petulant child and refusing to even look at his father or say farewell. The trees would part before them soon. He'd be able to see the house lights. Maybe even a Chinese lantern or two if Hop Sing had felt in the mood to hang them for their guests. As his new mount Sport clopped along, the thoroughbred's hooves beating out a steady rhythm, Adam was reminded of all this place meant to him. He'd helped to build it with his pa. He'd been there when Pa brought Marie home. He'd sat in the great room listening to her cries as his little brother had been born, and then remained in that same room with his head down and tears in his eyes as Pa and his friends bore the coffin of the third woman he'd dared to call 'ma' out of the door and up to the lake to rest for eternity.

Eternity. Ever lasting.

Ever green.

Home.

"Adam."

Monty's voice was strained.

"What is it?" he asked, drawing his gun from its holster even as he did.

"Men coming."

They had just enough time to get off the road. It was dark, so whoever was coming would have to have had the eyes of an eagle to spot them. The sound of horses approached swiftly. The riders were driving them hard. It was difficult to see anything through the leaves and by the light of the half-moon, but it appeared there were a half-dozen in the party. He thought one of them was a woman.

As soon as they were gone, Adam moved Sport onto the road. He kneed in and pressed his spurs into the bay's chest, urging him to fly like the wind. He knew now why he'd felt the urge to be home.

The riders had come from the direction of the house.

It took about six minutes to reach the yard. A minute before that his heart had plunged to his heels. Where there should have been light and life, there was nothing.

Only an open door and the bell that dangled from the post tinkling in the wind.

Adam glanced at his companion as they both dismounted and threw their reins over the rail. He signaled silently to the other man and they split up, each approaching from the opposite side of the door.

The only light illuminating the great room was in the hearth and it was burning low. The room had obviously been ransacked. Chairs were turned over. The silver on the dining room breakfront was missing. As he moved into the room, the dying embers cast weird shadows on the wall and on the figure lying closest to the door. He knew who it was immediately by his size. Kneeling at Hoss' side, Adam pressed two fingers against his throat and was overwhelmed to the point of tears when his brother moaned.

"Monty, light one of the lamps! Hoss is hurt."

Monty had remained near the door, stunned as him. He jerked and then headed for the lamp on the table where Pa kept his chess set. As his brother's eyelids fluttered, showing he was returning to consciousness, Adam ran a hand along Hoss' forehead, brushing off dried blood.

The motion roused the teenager. "Adam?" Hoss asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, it's me." He looked around as light began to fill the room. "Where are Pa and – "

"God Almighty!" Monty exclaimed. Adam looked up to see the cowboy drop to the ground, snatching his bandana from his neck as he did. "Adam, get over here!"

Fear clutched his innards and stabbed them, as sure as any broken rib. Stumbling to his feet, he asked, his voice shaking, "What?"

Monty glanced at him and then shook his head.

As Hoss stumbled to his feet behind him, the black-haired man rounded the end of the settee and stopped.

He'd met soldiers before. He'd heard them talk of carnage.

He'd never expected to find it in his home.

Little Joe lay crumpled, his head resting on the settee. A steady stream of blood ran down his face, soaking the elegant fabric beneath it. His brother was breathing, but the sound was rapid and shallow. A sheen of sweat coated Joe's skin and his cheeks were red as apples indicating a return of the fever that had plagued him. The sight drove a stake of terror into his heart.

The sight of his father laying next to Joe, bleeding from both a head and gut wound, pierced it.

Monty was leaning on his pa, pressing his already sodden kerchief into the hole in his side. When he did nothing but stare, the cowboy shouted at him.

"Adam! Get hold of yourself! They're both alive, but they'll sure as shootin' die if we don't do something to stop them bleedin'. Adam!"

Hoss' voice was weak, but it sounded from behind him. "I'll go for the doc."

He turned to look at his brother. Hoss looked like death on two legs. He would have argued with him, but there was no one else to go. Unless...

"Get over here, Hoss!" Monty ordered, taking charge. "You keep pressure on this wound. I'll go. You'll be off your horse and on the ground quicker than three ticks of a steer's tale!"

It took Hoss a moment, but he moved. His horror was evident as he placed his large hands over the bloody wound in their father's side and pressed down for all he was worth.

"What... What about Joe? Is he gonna...be okay?" the big teen asked.

He didn't know.

Guilt flooded through him.

Pivoting on his knees, Adam turned his attention to his little brother. When he tried to move him, even in his unconscious state, Joe cried out. But worse than that... Worse than that there was blood on his little brother's lips.

He had no idea whether it had come from the head wound or from within.

"Dear God..."

"Don't you go fallin'...apart on me, older...brother," Hoss rasped. It was clear his brother was still carrying on his own struggle for consciousness.

"What happened? _Who_ did this?" the black-haired man asked, his fear turning to anger as he looked at Joe again. When Hoss failed to reply, he repeated his demand, "Hoss, who did this?"

His brother's sky blue eyes shone like winter ice in the sun as they found him. "Adam, I got Pa's ...blood...all over my hands. There's too much. He's...gonna die, ain't he?"

He'd avoided looking directly at his father, but he did so now. Pa's skin was paler than Joe's. His breathing was more shallow. The older man hadn't made a sound or moved in the time since they'd found him.

As Adam stared at the older man and realized he might be dying, that last conversation they'd had played back in his head.

Words. He was a man of words. These were calculated to hurt.

' _Papa comes to save the day?_ ' he heard himself shout. ' _Don't you see, Pa?_ _That's part of the problem. I'll always be a little boy in your eyes – a little boy who needs looking after.'_ His father had asked him then, " _Where will you go?"_

' _Somewhere where a man can cast his own shadow,"_ he'd replied. _'Don't worry, I'll let you know when I find it.'_

Words.

Worthless words.


	9. Chapter 8

EIGHT

"Is he still in there?"

Twenty-year-old Hoss Cartwright glanced at the bedroom door and then at his older brother. Adam's face was carved out of the same rock as his – a granite-worry that, so far, nothing had been able to chip away at.

"You know how he is," his brother answered, his voice breaking with the strain of the last two days. "With something like this... Well, all the wild horses on the Ponderosa couldn't drag him from that bedside."

"Doc said it's pretty bad, huh?"

Adam had been the last one to talk to their family physician. It had been about an hour back before the older man went back to town to make his rounds. Doc Martin had come out of the room and down to the dining table ten shades paler.

His older brother ran a hand over his stubbled face. "Actually, Paul said it was hopeless."

It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck him. The big man stumbled. He saw the floor coming up and felt himself going down. A minute before he would have hit the carpet, Hoss felt his brother's strong hand grip his arm. A second later he was seated in the chair they had positioned in the upper hall just outside of the sickroom.

"Breathe deep, Hoss. Come on, I need you here with me."

Adam didn't plead. Heck, Adam didn't admit he needed help. The fact that he was doing both scared him witless.

Swallowing over that fear, the big teen asked, "Do you think he's really...gonna die?" Hoss drew in a breath that was dangerously close to a sob. "What'll we do if he does, Adam?"

He sounded like a kid who needed his Pa's shoulder to cry on.

He was.

Adam's squeezed his arm. His voice choked too. "You know what Pa always says, 'Keep your eyes on the sun and you won't see the shadows.' "

Hoss's eyes went to the bedroom door. He didn't see any sun. All he saw was a door that looked way too much like a stone standing stark naked over a freshly dug grave.

He drew in a breath. "You think we oughta go in? It's been a good half hour. I mean, something might of...happened..."

Adam rose and turned toward the door. "No. He would have come to get us. But I think you're right. It's probably best we get him back to bed."

Hoss squared his shoulders as he stood. "That's right. We gotta think about him. He's still sick himself. Ain't no tellin', I mean, with that fever he could still..."

Older brother had his hand on the latch. He pivoted to look at him. "Keep your eyes on the sun, Hoss."

Easy to say.

Hard to do.

The door opened onto cavernous darkness. Doc Martin had told them to shut out the light so his patient could rest, so even though outside it was a bright and unusually warm spring day, inside it was black as a tomb.

Hoss winced.

Bad choice of words.

As he and his brother moved into the sick room, the seated figure didn't stir. Their little brother's tear-streaked face and glazed eyes were trained on the bed that held all that was dear in the world to him.

Adam exchanged a look with him and then cleared his throat.

They waited.

It took a few heartbeats. Finally, that tear-streaked face turned toward them. The eyes it held were glazed with their own pain – Joe shouldn't have been out of bed, he was still sick as a dog hisself – but that didn't mean nothin'. They both knew he'd _die_ sittin' there. Doctor Martin had told them before he left that if somethin' didn't change soon, he was goin' to sedate him since he wouldn't listen.

' _I don't need two Cartwrights dyin' on me_ ,' he'd growled.

It had been close.

Still was.

Adam moved first, like he always did, takin' things in hand. Hoss watched his twenty-five-year old brother walk over to the side of the bed. He placed both hands on those saggin' shoulders and gently lifted Little Joe up.

"Come on. You're not well enough to be here. It's time you got some rest," Adam said softly. "One of us will stay."

At first it seemed his words went unheard. Hoss knew they hadn't. He saw that lean body beneath Adam's hands go rigid.

The words were hushed, grief-struck, and filled with rage. "It's all _my..._ fault. I should be lying there, not him. Not him! It should be _me_ dying!"

Hoss ventured closer. "You know he wouldn't want that. You ain't thinkin' clearly."

"I _am_ thinking clearly!" Anger shot his brother up and out of the chair and away from Adam's grasp. Little Joe crossed the room to the door and stood there shakin', still hurtin' from his own wounds and battlin' a deadly fever that was tryin' its best to carry him away. "You don't _know._ _You_ weren't there." The bluster went out of the boy, like a sail without wind. Tears fell. "I was! God...I was..."

The big man exchanged a look with his older brother as the Doc's prediction shuddered through them both. Before them stood a vision straight out of some tale of the knight's of old – the righteous avenger, seeking justice even at the cost of his own life. Hoss didn't know what to say or how to stop the rumbles that shook the ground under their feet, threatenin' to loose an avalanche of trouble.

Adam looked sick too. He was heading toward the door and the forlorn figure of their little brother standing there when he stopped abruptly and turned back.

Hoss pivoted toward the bed. He'd heard it too. Two words. Just two words.

"Joseph...why..."

The big man heard a sharp intake of breath, a sob, and then the door slammed.

And Little Joe was gone.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"He cain't have gone far, Adam. He just ain't well enough."

The black-haired man glanced at his nineteen-year-old brother. Hoss was still pale himself and had a linen bandage wound around his head. He had a mild concussion, but as it was with all Cartwrights, was choosing to ignore it. The pain and worry in his tone made him sound as young as Little Joe.

Who was missing.

"He might have been hiding. I think I'll take a look around the yard again," he said, unwilling to admit defeat. "Why don't you check in with Hop Sing and see if he's seen Joe. Maybe he got hungry."

"You know that little scallywag, Adam," Hoss sighed. "If Joe don't want to be found, he won't be. Leastwise not easy."

Adam nodded. "I'm going to try the stable again. Maybe we missed something."

As Hoss grunted his approval, Adam began to move. He felt... Well, actually he _had_ an unfounded expectation that he would find their missing brother in the stable even though he'd checked it before. Middle brother was right. Little Joe couldn't have gotten very far in the condition he was in. Their young brother was far from healed. It was by God's grace alone that – with the rough treatment he'd suffered at Finch Webb's hands – his broken rib hadn't snapped and shattered and punctured his lung or any other vital organ. Still, it had been close. The strain on Joe's body had been enough to rekindle his fever. It had broken late that morning, but the embers of the fire remained. Doc Martin had warned them before he left, that if Joe didn't behave, it could ignite again and might well consume him.

Behave?

Joe?

They'd found baby brother out of his bed and in Pa's room within two hours of him waking up.

Adam opened the door to the stable and peered in. It was early evening and the sun was at that angle where it cast the interior of the building into shadow even though it had yet to set. They'd searched all afternoon for Joe with no luck. It had surprised him, Joe leaving the house when Pa was...well...far from all right. If Pa took a turn for the worse and Joe wasn't there, little brother would blame himself.

Adam halted. He blew out a breath and settled his hat back on his head. Then he ran a hand over the tense muscles in his neck. What was he saying? That _was_ the problem. Joe already blamed himself and neither of them knew for what. For being injured and unable to stop Finch Webb from entering the house? For being too fast or too slow or – and this was more likely – too impulsive? They had no idea. The kid wouldn't talk and there were no other witnesses. They'd found Hop Sing and Ming-hua tied up in the kitchen. Neither had seen anything. The man who had violated their home was gone, taking with him not only Greg, but Rosey O'Rourke. Hoss had been unconscious, and Pa...

Pa hadn't said anything more since he'd roused briefly to ask Joe 'why'?

Moving with care Adam first checked the loft, which was one of Little Joe's favorite haunts, and then began to go from stall to stall looking into each one. He almost missed him – would _have_ missed him, in fact, if Cadfan had not snorted and stamped the ground, drawing his attention to the small miserable pile of curls and filthy clothes huddled in the back corner of the Welsh pony's stall. From the looks of things, Joe'd been trying to mount his horse. Cadfan's saddle lay upside-down on the stable floor, the blanket askew. Joe's arms were wrapped around his middle and he was sobbing silently.

It made him angry at first, seeing his brother on the stall floor covered with filth and muck. The kid knew better than to wallow in that stuff or to put himself at the mercy of a stray kick from a skittish animal. One blow and that could be the end of him.

Panic gripped him.

Could that be what Joe wanted?

Taking hold of Cadfan's bridle, Adam led him out of the stall and tethered him to the ladder that led up into the loft. Then he returned and knelt by his brother who had not moved.

Reaching out for him, he said, "Joe..."

The boy exploded in anger, shoving his hand away "Go away! I don't want none of you! Just leave me alone!," Joe shouted as he jerked away from him. "Go! I don't want –" His brother's eyes went wide. He sucked in air as pain stabbed him. "I can't..." A second later those red-rimmed green eyes pinned him, full of pain, filled with sorrow and...anguish. "Adam, I couldn't..."

"Couldn't what, buddy?" he asked gently as he reached out again and steadied him.

Tears streamed down his baby brother's face, cascading over those thick lashes to mingle with the dirt and sweat. After a gasp, he breathed out the words, "I couldn't...saddle Cadfan. I...couldn't go after...Finch. I gotta...go, Adam!" His little brother's jaw locked and his nostrils flared like a bull in a rage. "He's gotta...pay...for what he made..." Joe's eye flicked to his face. They were wary as a guilty man facing down a sheriff. "For what _he_...did to Pa!"

Adam waited a moment for him to calm down and then he asked, "And what do you think _Pa_ would think about you doing that?"

That small jaw jutted out. Joe blinked, sending more tears racing toward his chin. "He... Pa would..." His little brother stopped. He looked down and drew a steadying breath. When Joe looked up again, Adam saw something in his eyes – something he had only glimpsed before and hoped to Hell he'd been wrong about – Joe wanted to curl up and die.

His hand gripped his brother's shoulder. "Joe, what is it? What can't – or _won't_ you tell me?"

Baby brother had several talents. Working with horses was chief among them. He also had a way of seeing around problems that stumped the rest of them due to his life lived without restraint. But he had another one, one that did not bode well for the future should something ever come along that he couldn't face. Once Joseph Francis Cartwright made his mind up to keep something inside, there was no locksmith on the planet could open that safe.

You had to wait for him to find the key on his own.

Joe was glaring at him. Sort of. Actually, he looked like he was going to pass out and was holding on by sheer will alone.

"Come on, buddy. Let's get you inside," he said as he reached for him.

It surprised him. Joe reached back this time and caught his hand in an iron grip. "You gotta promise me one thing, Adam. You _gotta_."

His hand squeezed his brother's back. "What's that, Joe?" he asked, his tone soft.

"Promise me you won't go after Finch without me."

Oh dear.

"Deputy Coffee is looking for Finch Webb," he answered evasively.

"He ain't...gonna...find him," Little Joe huffed as some deep-seated fear tightened his jaw more than pain or anger could. "It'll be...us. It's _...got_ to be us!" More tears flowed, making him look like a little boy lost in the midst of a storm much too ferocious for him to weather.

Which was, of course, exactly what he was.

"Adam, _promise_ me!"

What could he say? He had to get the kid in the house before he died of exposure. With his hand on Joe's, he could tell the fever was still there and thought it was rising.

After all, with any luck the posse would take Finch Webb long before he had to worry about honoring it.

Right?

"Okay, Joe, I promise."

Those huge eyes of his blinked. Gratitude filled them. "Really?"

Adam sighed. The kid needed _something_ to hold onto.

"Really."

Joe nodded and his full lips curled with a trace of a smile. A moment later something went out of him – Adam could only hope it wasn't all the life that was left _in_ him. Joe shivered and then slumped and then nearly toppled over into the muck that covered the stall floor.

He caught him, of course, before he could. Then he lifted his little brother up in his arms and bore him toward the house.

Hoss and Hop Sing rushed out of the door to meet them and then it began all over again. A night without rest. A vigil at a bedside – two bedsides, actually.

And a lot of prayer.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It proved to be a long night. Adam only surrendered his chair at his father's side when Paul Martin arrived for his noontime check the next day. The Doc had done all he could to clean and stitch the wound the bullet had made in the area of Pa's abdomen. Fortunately, it hadn't been as bad as the Doctor had first feared. Paul apologized and then admitted, with chagrin, that he had been exhausted the night before and shaken deeply by seeing such a good man as their pa taken down as if his life meant nothing. In the end it appeared that nothing vital had been damaged and what damage there was, the physician's skilled hands had cleaned up and repaired. Paul _was_ concerned that there might still be a few bleeders, which was a part of the reason he had instructed them to keep such a close watch. The doctor was also worried that the older man hadn't wakened yet, other than that one time when he swam up out of the darkness to call for Joe.

And then, of course, there was the fever.

Before he left Paul had laid a hand on his shoulder and ordered him to go get cleaned up and to get some food. He'd stumbled into the hallway and collapsed in the chair he had put there for Hoss the night before. He was still there a half hour later when the big teen came out of Joe's room looking like thirty miles of bad road.

"How's Joe?" he asked.

Hoss's giant shoulders rose and fell. "Sleepin', I think. Boy, the Doc sure was mad when he found out Joe got out of that bed and went outside."

He could still hear Paul railing, cursing not only them but the mule-headed young boy that he loved and feared for.

"What do you mean you 'think'?"

His brother scowled. "Joe's fever's been mighty high, Adam. He was out of his head a lot last night. Might be he's unconscious 'stead of asleep."

He nodded. That was part of why it had been a rough night. He'd heard Joe screaming and the sound of it had ripped at his heart.

When Hoss said nothing more, Adam clued in to the fact that there _was_ something more.

"What _aren't_ you telling me?" he asked.

Hoss looked back toward Joe's room. Then his ice blue eyes returned to him. "I think – now I ain't entirely sure, mind you – but for some reason..." He cleared his throat. "For some reason I think Joe's got it in his head that he's responsible for Pa bein' shot."

Adam rose to his feet. "What?"

"Could just be the fever talkin', I guess."

He'd been sleepy before, but he was wide awake now. "What exactly did he say?"

Hoss's eyes reflected the horror of what he'd been through over the last six or so hours. "Joe just kept tossin' and turnin' – moanin', you know, and talkin' out of his head. He was in so much pain." The big man looked sick. Hoss hated to see _anything_ in pain but _this_ was his beloved little brother. "Some of it was what's ailin' him, I'm sure, but the other..." The big man shook his head. "Adam, it was _soul_ deep."

He nodded, acknowledging both of his brothers' pain.

"Little Joe kept talkin' about fightin' with that there Finch feller. 'I can make it,' he'd say. 'I can make it. I gotta.' And then he'd stretch out his arm and wiggle his fingers kind of weak, like he was reachin' for somethin'."

For the first time since it had happened, Adam thought about the position he'd found Pa and Joe in when he'd come home that night. Searching now for the image he'd tried so desperately to banish, he found it and processed it again, this time noting the settee table at an odd angle, the fruit bowl on the floor and the scattered checkerboard, as well as the fireplace implements lying on the hearth. Everything indicated a struggle had taken place.

Hoss must be seeing it in his head too. "I'm thinkin' Little Joe must have jumped Finch somehow," he speculated. "Maybe the two of them was strugglin' for that outlaw's gun and...it went...off..."

For a second there were no words.

"Good Lord," he breathed.

Hoss had crossed to the staircase. He was holding onto the newel post and looking up toward the second floor. Adam watched him turn back with a shake of his head.

"I sure hope it ain't true."

"I think it is," he said with all the finality of absolute proof. "It explains everything."

Everything including Joe's seeming disregard for his own health and recovery.

"You think one of us ought to talk to him?"

It was a hard call. They could hardly let it go, but at the same time forcing Joe to face such a momentous thing before he was physically and mentally healed enough to do so might not be the best thing.

Finally he admitted, "I don't know."

"You don't _know?"_

Hoss' look was almost comical. Him saying ' _I don't know'_ was tantamount to his brothers to a pronouncement of the end of the world.

He rose and crossed to his brother. "We'll ask Paul when we can. Now, what's say you and I get washed up and ready for breakfast. It won't be long before Hop Sing will be complaining about us still being in our night clothes."

"Mistah Adam, Mistah Hoss have reason. Hop Sing no complain. Only want what best for Little Joe and father." They turned to find their Chinese cook and friend standing in the hallway. "You no dressed. Need strength to do so. Came to tell you breakfast is on table."

Adam chuckled. "Thank you for thinking of us, Hop Sing, but I don't know." He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. "I think one of us should check in on the convalescents."

"Hop Sing go check. You go to table. Eat. Then get dressed." He made a face. " _Velly_ late in day. Father not be happy you no dressed."

Hoss pursed his lips. "I don't think Adam or me is very hungry, Hop Sing."

"Still you eat! If father here, he tell you to eat!" The man from China paused. "Hop Sing not father, but love sons as his own. Not want you get sick." He jabbed a finger at them. "Do father and brother no good if you get sick!"

Adam held his hands up in surrender. "All right. We'll sit down and – "

A knock at the door silenced him. He looked at the other two men and then headed down the stairs, thinking maybe it was Roy and he'd come with news.

It wasn't.

It was Monty Webb.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

As Hoss turned from the staircase to join Adam, a slender shadow separated from the other ones that darkened the upper landing. Little Joe was barely on his feet, but he was determined to remain on them long enough to see his pa. When he'd awakened to find himself alone, he'd panicked, thinking the worst. It took some managing, but he'd rolled out of the bed on his good side and then padded down the hallway in his socks toward his pa's room. Looking in, he saw that Pa was alone too. After making sure his father was breathing, he went on to the staircase. He could hear Adam and Hoss talking. He wanted to be certain they were busy before heading back and he saw that they were. Monty Webb had just stepped into the room. The cowboy looked about as worn as he could be. He'd been out riding with Roy Coffee, searching for Rosey and Greg and... Joe swallowed over a lump of anger and guilt.

For Finch Webb.

So many emotions welled up in him at the thought of that name. It was like a flash flood, dark and devastating and deadly. He'd told himself over and over and over again that he hadn't really shot his pa – that Finch had done it – that he'd had no choice but to go for that gun when he did; no chance but the try to reach it first. Joe turned to look back toward his Pa's darkened room. The trouble was, just about every time he had himself halfway convinced, Pa's words came back like a slap on the cheek.

' _Joseph...why?'_

Why what? Why had he gone for the gun? Why had he taken the bad man on? Why had he let him think he was out cold and scared him?

 _Why_ had he shot him?

Joe was breathing hard. He reached out a hand and caught the stair rail to steady himself. They thought he'd been asleep – Adam and Hoss – when they'd talked to Doc Martin in his room. Pa was healing like he was, but he wasn't out of danger yet. If the fever didn't break soon, he might not make it, or worse, if he did, Pa might never be the same.

Weary and heavy-hearted, Joe moved from the landing and went to his father's room. He paused outside of it, leaning his head on the door a moment, before tripping the latch and going in. Pa was laying on his bed with a blanket pulled up to his chest. His labored breathing was the only sound in the room. Joe's eyes landed on the buckets by the bedside table, filled with water and a bit of remaining ice. He'd heard Adam say they'd packed Pa in it overnight. It had brought his temperature down, but not near enough.

Joe sucked in a deep breath and went to the chair by the bed and sat down. He sat there for the longest time, not sure he had the right to even _touch_ his pa – after all, his actions, his _choice_ had put him in this bed. Finally, unable to stop himself – _needing_ that tangible touch – the hurting boy reached out and laid his hand on his father's arm.

Immediately, the tears began to flow.

Joe's head followed his hand and, as his curls brushed his father's fingers, the older man's breath caught. Joe looked up instantly, afraid he had done something wrong, only to find his father looking at him.

Pa's eyes were clouded with pain, but he was _looking_ at him.

His father's parched lips parted. Joe knew before he asked what he wanted. Rising slowly, he took a few steps to the table and filled the glass there with water. Leaving it on the table, he slipped his right arm under his pa's shoulders, grunting a bit as he did, and lifted him up. Then, taking hold of the glass, he gave him a few sips of water. As he did, the older man's eyes fixed on his for a moment and then they closed. Joe's arm was shaking by the time he laid his father back down and made a move to drop into the chair.

A weak grip on his wrist prevented it.

Pa's dark brows were drawn together in the center. He worked his lips a moment and then managed to whisper, "Hurt..."

Joe swallowed hard. "I know it does, Pa. I'm sorry..."

His father was shaking his head. "No... Hurt...to see...you..."

His world crashed in that instant. Pa _did_ blame him! Pa didn't want to look at him! He thought he had shot him on _purpose!_ Pa...

"...hurt to...see...you...in such pain."

It was like a rope had been thrown around him and someone had hauled back. Joe blinked. "What...?"

"Finch...hurt you." Pa's grip grew a little stronger. " _I_...hurt you. Left...alone..."

His head was shaking now, making the curls fly. "No, Pa! How can you think that? It was _me!_ I shot – "

"No!" His father's voice was surprisingly strong. "You... _saved_ me." He paused to lick his lips. "Joseph...why?"

There it was. The question that had nagged him for days. Joe tried to pull away, but somehow his father managed to hold him fast.

"Answer...me. Why?"

"Why what, Pa?" he pleaded. "Tell me. _Why what?"_

Pa drew in a breath. Joe felt him release the hold on his wrist and watched as he struggled to raise a hand toward his face. "...shouldn't...have risked...your...life, boy. Why...did you...take...such a...chance?"

Joe shattered. There was no other way to put it. All of the stress of worrying about his pa dying, the guilt over what he had done and the memory of his finger on that trigger, the lack of sleep, his own injuries, and the fever he was still fightin' – all of it came crashing down at once and he plain and simple fell apart. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he fell forward and pressed his face into the blanket.

As his fingers twisted into the thick fabric and he began to sob, his father's hand found a purchase in his curls.

Joe knew Doctor Martin would kill him when he came in again to check on the two of them, but he didn't care. He caught his pa's hand in his own as he sat up. Then he laid it at the older man's side. Then, like he was four years old and had just awakened from a nightmare, he went to the other side of the bed and crawled in. Careful not to hurt his pa, and wary of his own bandaged side, he got as close as he could and then drew his father's left arm around his shoulders.

As he lay there, soaking in Pa's scent and considering whether life would be worth living if his father died, the rock of his world said, "Not your...fault, Joseph."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Five minutes later the door to the sick room opened and Hop Sing stepped in again. He had come to tidy up. The man from China left five minutes later, with dirty linens and buckets of melted ice chips in his hands.

And a wide smile on his face.


	10. Chapter 9

NINE

It was afternoon and Doctor Martin had come and gone, completing his second visit of the day. Adam smiled as he thought of the physician's face when they led him into their pa's room. Paul had been torn between joy, hope, anger, and exasperation. After grumbling something about the fact that 'at least' the pair were _in_ bed, he set about examining both Joe and Pa. Joe's fever was up and Pa's was down, but neither were in a range that was life-threatening. Three days after the horrific scene he had come home to, it seemed life had a chance of returning to some semblance of normalcy.

Except, of course, that the man who had tried to kill his entire family was still on the loose and both Greg Webb and Rosey O'Rourke were missing. Sheriff Olin had organized a posse and they were on their trail. It chafed at him and Hoss that they had been forced to inaction by circumstances. Still, neither one of them had been willing to leave until they knew their father and brother were out of danger. The others in the house were similarly effected. Ming-hua was beside herself. The young woman from China did little but cry. Hop Sing, who was battling his own demons of fear and fatigue, managed to keep her busy during the day. Still, he'd heard her at night, weeping into the early morning hours until exhaustion compelled her to rest, terrified for the woman she had come to think of as a mother.

Since neither his pa nor his brother had been very forthcoming yet about what happened, he assumed Greg Webb was also a prisoner and was innocent in all of this. Monty had said something when he'd stopped in briefly before that indicated the young man would not have gone with Finch willingly. Adam had no idea what the family's dynamics were, but from what little he knew of Greg, and what Hoss had been able to tell him about Finch, he doubted the boy had taken part in what the outlaw had done. It made him wonder if there was more to Monty and Greg leaving the cattle drive early than either one of them had admitted.

He guessed he'd find out when the cowboy returned.

Adam leaned into the blue velvet chair and rested his head against its high back. He was weary to the bone. There had been so much going on – so many things to do – he hadn't really processed the fact that he could have lost his entire family in one night. This morning, sitting there, looking at Pa and Joe, it had hit him like a punch in the gut. Wasn't that, after all, what he'd intended to do – ride away and leave them all, perhaps never to see them again? The concept had become a cold hard reality. He had comforted himself with the fact that he would write and they would write back. Somehow, he would manage to remain a part of their lives even though he had chosen to be _apart._ The last few days had taught him there would be no going back. It would be as if Pa and Hoss and Little Joe were dead to him.

And he didn't think he could live with that.

No, he _knew_ he couldn't.

"Mistah Adam want some cake?" Hop Sing asked after appearing at his side as like a genie out of a bottle. "Number one son not eat supper."

"I ate, Hop Sing," he countered. "You were there."

"Hop Sing there to carry plate away with enough food on it to feed pack of wolves outside!" the man from China snapped, a bit of his annoyance breaking through the concern.

"Forgive me," he said with a smile. "I promise I will do better tomorrow."

"You could have given me ol' Adam's leftovers instead of them wolves," Hoss quipped as he descended into the room. "I could eat a whole 'nother meal after findin' Pa and Joe together lookin' good and happy as two peas in a pod."

"Little Joe better in own bed," their cook pronounced. "Boy not know how to lay still. Keep father awake."

It was true. Pa would probably wake up with Joe's fist in his face and a long skinny leg draped across his own.

Adam met Hop Sing's anxious gaze. " _A merry heart doeth good like a medicine, but a broken spirit drieth the bones_ ," he said softly, quoting Proverbs.

"You need to run that one by Doc Martin, Adam," Hoss said with a snort. "He didn't look like he was none too merry when he found Joe in Pa's bed."

No, he hadn't. Fortunately, there were _four_ of them and only one of Doc Martin. Little Joe had stayed put.

"Doctor say Mistah Ben much better." It was a statement, but still a question.

"Yes, " Adam replied as he rose to his feet. "Pa's fever is down and there seems to be no infection in the wound. It will be quite a while before his strength is back, but Paul is certain it will return."

"Little Joe better too?"

He nodded. "Yes, he's better too."

It was true Joe was better, but his fever was still a problem. Baby brother just couldn't seem to throw it off. Still Paul was optimistic. He thought that – now that Joe had accepted the fact that he wasn't responsible for shooting their father – he would quickly regain strength and might be up in a day or two. His broken rib was another matter. Joe still had weeks of healing ahead of him on that account.

Which left him with a problem, and that was the promise he had made to his little brother that they wouldn't go after the man who'd shot Pa without him.

Seemingly satisfied by an answer that would have left _him_ questioning more, Hop Sing nodded and returned to the kitchen. At that same moment a knock sounded at the front door. Hoss was closer, so he went to get it. After he opened the door, the big teen stepped back to allow a dusty and exhausted-looking Monty Webb to step into the room. He'd been in a little earlier to tell them he was back, but this was the first time they would have a chance to talk.

"The posse ain't given up, has they?" Hoss asked.

Monty removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh before hanging it on the rack. "Sorry about all the dirt," he said as his eyes darted about the room, settling on the area of the settee.

The cowboy seemed nervous. Adam had a sense that he had something he wanted to say, but was having a hard time finding a way to begin.

"Would you like a brandy, or maybe a shot of whiskey?" Adam asked. "You look like you could use it."

"I'll take some coffin varnish, thanks." As Adam mused over what his father would think of his twenty dollar bottle of double barrel whiskey being called such a thing, Monty advanced into the room, saying, "No, the posse ain't quit. They've moved on, following a trail they found."

Adam brought the drink to him. "But you don't think it's Finch's trail."

Monty downed the whiskey in one gulp and handed the glass back. He looked him in the eye. "Don't _think_ nothin'. I know it ain't."

"And you didn't tell them?" Hoss was outraged. "What was you thinkin'?"

Adam held the other man's gaze. He recognized something in it. Something he knew Monty saw in his own.

"This is about family. Isn't it?" the black-haired man asked.

Hoss scowled. "What you talkin' about, Adam?"

He held a hand up. "I think Monty has the answer to that question. How about you, Monty?"

The cowboy nodded and then went to the settee and sat down. He shook his head when Hoss offered another drink.

Adam sat across from him while Hoss anchored an arm on the mantle. "Tell us," he said.

Monty drew a long breath and let it out slowly. Then he began.

"Me and Finch, we was born in Idaho. Our family was one of the first to travel west. They tried farming and then panning for gold, and then finally opened up a saloon. We lived upstairs over the main room. Finch was born before that, while the panning was goin' on. There were five between me and him. None of the girls made it past five and the younger brother we had died when he tried to swim a crick that was runnin' too fast." Monty sighed as he thought about it, as if that brother's death had hit him hardest of all. "Ma tried to teach us, but you know boys. By the time I was old enough to squat over a pot Finch was leadin' me into all kinds of trouble." He snorted. "How much older are you than Little Joe, Adam?"

"Twelve years."

"Then you know what it's like."

"'Cept with us Cartwrights it's the other way round," Hoss said, affection softening his tone. "That little brother of ours, he's the one what leads' _us_ into trouble!"

Monty nodded. "Greg was like that too. Dang kid. I told him not to try crossin' that creek."

For a moment Adam's mind was filled with the image of Joe doing just that same thing. Then he realized what Monty had said.

" _Was?_ "

The blond man licked his lips and nodded. "My brother Greg drowned when he was twelve."

Adam's brows peaked. "Would you care to explain then, how we met him a few days ago?"

"No, wait," Hoss said, taking a seat on the hearth. "I seem to remember Greg shoutin' somethin' at Finch while I was lyin' on the floor. I was half out of my head." He frowned, reaching for it. "I think Greg yelled somethin' about hatin' Finch and him not _bein'_ his brother?"

"He's not. He's not mine either. Not by blood." Monty sighed. "But he sure is in every other way."

Adam leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around each other and dangling them between his knees.

"Go on."

The tale was long and twisted. Finch Webb, it seemed, had from the very beginning been a bad egg. He broke every rule and then, because he got away with it, broke them again and again. Their father died when Monty was six and Finch, seventeen. For a time their mother ran the saloon, but her heart wasn't in it and one day she simply disappeared, leaving her two surviving children to fend for themselves.

Finch lived on the edge and craved excitement, and so he soon gravitated to crime. Within a few months he was using Monty to swindle away widow's and little old ladies' savings. He went through money like water, so they were always at it and always on the move, it being too dangerous for him to remain in any one town for long. Eventually, as age and hard living caught up to him, Finch decided it was time to settle down and get a 'proper' job.

That was when he went to work at the Square Deal Saloon, one of the first establishments of its kind in the small gathering of houses and businesses that would soon come to be known as San Francisco. Finch had been in his mid-thirties, handsome, strong and able, and more than capable of turning the head of the female owner of the Square Deal with his sweet talk and winning smile. In time he just about ran the place, though his official role was that of bouncer.

Trouble was, some of the men Finch 'bounced' ended up dead.

It was only then that Monty began to suspect his older brother might be more than a cheat and a bully. That maybe, he was a killer too.

Monty had paused then and his look darkened. There was a woman who worked in the saloon that Finch became obsessed with. She was a sad, dark-haired beauty who went by the working name of Silks, due to the expensive silk dresses she wore. One day Silks tried to kill herself. A new doctor in the town was called – a doctor who was willing to enter such an establishment and treat 'soiled doves'. He saved her life and then they fell in love. Shortly after that they were married and Silks went away, leaving behind the sordid life she'd lived.

But she couldn't leave behind Finch.

It was at this point Adam had stopped Monty's narrative with a question. "Do you know her real name?"

Monty bit his lip and nodded. "Found it out, but only after...what happened."

Hoss looked sick. "It was Miss Rosey, wasn't it?"

The cowboy nodded. "It took me a while to recognize her. She looks different. Older. Tougher. But it's her."

"So your brother Finch _was_ the man who killed Rosey's husband and son? And you _stayed_ with him?" Adam's tone was accusatory.

Monty shrugged. "Finch was all I had, and you gotta remember, Finch was all I _knew_. I was aware that some of the things he did was crooked as a snake fence and he shoulda been in jail, but at the time – I was only twenty or so – it all seemed like a kind of lark." Monty paled. "Until the O'Rourkes."

"Did you know he killed them?"

"Only later." The blond man paused. "And he didn't kill 'them'. Finch only killed Patrick O'Rourke."

"Then what happened to Rory?" Hoss asked, mystified.

It was like a brick wall falling.

"Greg," Adam breathed. "Greg is Rosey's son."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rosey caught the ripped bodice of her dress in her hand and held it up so it covered the exposed skin and underpinnings beneath. This was the first they had stopped in their mad dash to avoid the Cartwrights and the law, and the first time the man she had once known as Sten had tried to take advantage of her. She'd spat in his face and fought like a wildcat, raking fingernails down his cheeks like claws. She knew this man and knew if she made him mad enough he would lose his lust in another more overriding emotion – rage.

Fifteen years had passed since she'd found herself in this position. _Fifteen_ years that had seen the life and death of the man she loved and their son, as well as the baby daughter whom this monster denied breath. He had taken away everything and everyone she loved. They were all dead.

Or dying.

"Ben," she sobbed as tears ran down her cheeks.

Finch had been reaching for her. He stopped when he heard her speak the rancher's name. It was at that moment that the rage overcame him. Rosey could tell he wanted to throttle her. A myriad of emotions flashed in those cold callous eyes. There was anger, but even more there was fear. If he lost control and killed her then he'd lose, because she'd be dead and free.

And Finch couldn't stand to lose.

Just before his hands would have circled her throat, the former bouncer turned and picked up a chair and slammed it into the wall, sending wooden missiles flying through the room. It made quite a racket. Unfortunately, even if anyone heard, no one would care. They were in a back alley behind a dive of a saloon in a small village called Harriman, just outside of Reno. Finch planned on robbing the town's bank. He'd already gambled away almost all of the money he'd stolen from the Cartwright's safe and what he'd got from selling their things. Apparently in the years he had been on the run, cattle rustling and robbery had become his vocation. Sadly, Finch had pulled his younger brothers into it including the young man with the thick wavy brown hair who lay unconscious at her feet.

Greg had tried to protect her.

"Ain't no use your worryin' about that dead rancher. He's long gone and the Devil's welcome to him!" Finch snarled.

"You're the only devil I know!" she countered sharply as she knelt beside the young man. "What's wrong with you? You may have killed your own brother!"

"Greg ain't dead," the villain sneered, and then finished enigmatically, "Couldn't kill him. Then or now."

The young man moaned at her touch. "He needs a doctor," she said.

Finch spat. "Seems to me, Silks, you should of learned enough, havin' a medical man between your legs. _You_ take care of him."

Ignoring the taunt, Rosey turned her attention to the young man's injuries. There was a deep gash behind Greg's left ear where Finch had hit him with the butt of his gun. It had been at least ten minutes and this was the first the boy had shown any sign of consciousness.

"He may have a concussion."

"Don't matter to me what's wrong with him so long as he's up and movin' by the time Simms and me get back." The villain crossed to the door and opened it. He turned and showed her the key. "You know these places. Ain't but one way out and I got the key, so you just settle back and wait."

Yes, she knew these 'places'. This backwater town had two saloons and Finch had taken up residence in the most sordid one. He'd rented one of the cribs out back of the ramshackle building and forced her into it, intending to have his way with her. He would have too, if Greg had not barged in and tried to stop him.

She felt an inexpressible moment of relief as the door closed behind him.

Brushing the dark hair back from Greg's forehead, she pressed her hand to his skin. It was clammy. She was frightened for him. From the moment Finch had grabbed her and forced her out of Ben's ranch house and into the wagon that took them away, Greg had remained close by her, as if – by his very presence – he could protect her somehow from his brother's madness.

Much like Patrick had done.

In fact, the boy reminded her of her husband, though Pat had been a good deal older when they met. Still, Greg had the same sensitive mouth; the same caring eyes. Even the shape of his face was similar. But it was there the comparison stopped. Patrick would never have been a party to the things this boy had – robbery, rustling.

Maybe murder.

Greg would have been a boy when her husband and son were murdered, so she was fairly certain he had not taken part in that horrific crime. Still, from the things she'd heard along the way, his hands were not entirely clean. Finch's man, Abel Simms, had made a remark about him holding the horses during an earlier robbery.

Even _that_ could be enough to get a man hanged.

A second moan from the young man drew her attention back to him. He was trying to sit up.

"Here," she said, taking hold of his arm. "Let me help you."

Greg glanced at her and then shied away. "Why would you?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," she said, refusing to yield. "And would be even if you _hadn't_ tried to help me."

He had a shy grin and favored her with it now. "Fat lot of good I was."

"You were a good deal of help. You stopped him." Rosey glanced at her torn gown. She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. "Thank you."

The young man nodded and then turned a pale shade of green as sweat broke out on his forehead. "I think I'm going to be sick."

She'd expected it. In his rage, Finch had broken not only the chair but a small table and knocked the basin it held to the floor. She reached for it now and held it as Greg retched. After propping him back against the wall, she rose and went to get the pitcher that rested on a shabby bureau. Returning with it, she sat it down and then proceeded to rip lengths of cloth from her petticoats. Balling them up, she dipped them in the water and used one to bathe his face.

She smiled as she wiped the blood away. "I've got you, sweet boy," she said. "You'll be just fine."

Greg watched her, a strange look on his face.

"Are you going to be sick again?" she asked.

He shook his head. Carefully. "Can I ask you to do something?" he asked, his voice catching.

Her fingers were on his chin. She was running the cloth over his face again. As she did, for some reason, a chill ran along her spine.

"Of course," she said, hiding her discomfort.

"Say that again." At her puzzled look, he added, "What you just said, about being 'fine'."

She noticed he closed his eyes as she spoke. "I've got you, sweet boy? You'll be just fine."

His brow wrinkled. A tear escaped his eye. "My...ma called me that."

"How old were you when she died?" she asked.

"I don't know. I don't...remember. Finch said I was about twelve." Greg drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. "My pa's dead too. We were at some woman's home when these bad men came. They killed my pa. I...I tried to save him. I was shot. One bullet took me in the side and another along the head, that's how come I've forgot a lot." He licked his lips as he rested his head on the crib wall. "When I woke up I was with Finch. He told me the men had hit several homes in the valley including ours, killing everyone, and since I was a witness, I couldn't go back – not even for the funeral." He shrugged. "I was just a kid. There wasn't anything I could do about it."

She was wringing out the cloth, watching the boy's blood color the water. "What happened then?"

"Finch adopted me. Started telling people we were brothers and that was all right with me. After all, I didn't have anyone else. We traveled north into Oregon Territory and that's where I met Monty." Greg smiled. "Me and Monty hit it off. He's a good man."

Even though Monty too had taken part in robberies and Heaven only knew what else.

"Did you ever think of running away? Of trying to find your people?" she asked as she picked up a new cloth and began to fasten a binding for his head.

Greg was silent a moment. "Monty and me, well, that's what we were doing. All three of us were working this big cattle drive. We figured we could get away and Finch wouldn't be able to track us due to all the steers moving through and trampling any prints. We heard we could get work in Nevada, hopefully with the Cartwrights since they pay better than anyone else and they had such a big spread. When we made enough, we were gonna head to San Francisco."

She was tying the band around his head. Again, there was an electric thrill, as if someone had stepped on her grave.

"Why San Francisco?"

He shrugged. "You know how it is. Even though I lost most of my memories before that night, I still have a few impressions. I remember being in San Francisco with my pa. I think he might have been a doctor. I thought maybe someone there would remember me."

Rosey's hands froze in the midst of fashioning a knot.

"A...doctor?"

He nodded. "I think I went out with him sometimes, to see his patients." He frowned with remembered pain. "I think that's why we were at that lady's house. To help her."

Her heart was beating fast, pounding in her chest. "Do you remember your father's name?"

He shook his head. "No"

"Your mother?"

Another shake of the head. "No. Not hers either. I just called them 'ma' and 'pa'." He paused. "But I do remember my own name. Well, my Christian name."

"What? It's not Greg?"

"That was the name of Finch's kid brother that died. He made me use it. Said it was close enough to mine but different, and I needed to hide because of the outlaws who had killed my folks and would be gunning for me."

She felt as if she might faint. It couldn't be. It just _couldn't_. Not after all these years.

"And...your real name is?"

He had a little smile on his face.

"Rory."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam Cartwright sat at the side of the bed that held his sleeping father and brother. His mind was awhirl. He had come up here to find some peace. He'd needed to be alone and yet, strangely, needed just as much to be _with_ someone. He loved Hoss, but his brother had a tendency to work through family problems by hashing them out with words. He just didn't have it in him to talk right now, and so he'd sent Hoss out to ride the line and check in with the men. He was probably furious with him. It didn't matter.

All that mattered was what _he_ was going to do next.

Near the end of their talk Monty admitted that he had deliberately mislead Sheriff Olin and his posse. It wasn't that he intended to let Finch get away. What he _did_ intend was to be the one to take his brother in. His main concern was Greg. Correction. Rory.

Greg-ory.

How could they have been so _blind?_

Monty knew that, if Olin and went in with guns blazing, it was likely Greg would be killed. Posse's that contained civilians were notoriously indiscriminate when it came to the take-down, often going off half-cocked. They were also hard to control. Lynchings happened. During the night the cowboy had laid a false trail for the lawman to follow and then returned to the Ponderosa.

The sheriff was going to be royally pissed when he figured it out.

Monty went on to explain that he knew his older brother's haunts and was fairly certain where Finch had gone. He'd returned because he was sure that he and Hoss would want to go with him when he went to confront his brother. He was right. He did. So did Hoss.

So did Little Joe.

Looking at his baby brother now, Adam didn't know _how_ he could take him along. Joe was still recovering. A few hours before the fever had finally left him and he was sleeping normally for the first time, his arm wrapped around Pa's middle. Pa had made it through the woods too. Paul Martin had grumbled and growled and then admitted with a smile that the Cartwright miracle machine was in place. He said before he left that, barring anything unforeseen happening, their father would make a full recovery.

And therein lay the rub.

If he and Hoss rode out and left Little Joe behind, and Joe knew that their pa was out of danger, it would take nothing short of an act of God to keep their baby brother from following them. Oh, they could try to hide their intent from him, but it was bound to slip out. There were simply too many men; too many chances for Joe to find out what they were up to. They could put Ming-hua and Hop Sing in charge of him, but Joe had a way of wrapping the man from China around his finger and Ming-hua, well, she was simply too distressed about Rosey to be of much help.

They could, of course, always take Joe into Eagle Station and let the sheriff lock him in a cell!

Adam ran a hand over his face. But that wouldn't be fair to Joe. He was a Cartwright too. It was _his_ father who had nearly been killed. It was his right to see justice done as much as it was theirs – maybe even more for what Finch had forced him to do.

Rising, Adam went to the other side of the bed and sat down. He sighed and then, reaching out, placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. Here he was, at the same point he'd been several days before. He knew what his father would say and yet, knew as well that Joe _needed_ this. Little Joe had felt so helpless since the whole debacle with Wade Bosh and now, dear God, now he felt responsible for Pa being shot. Joe needed something.

Something to hang onto.

His brother shifted and moaned and a little smile twisted the edges of his full lips. A moment later the kid reached up in his sleep and covered Adam's hand with his own.

The black-haired man sighed again and then snorted. He seemed to do that a lot when the kid was around.

Still, a promise was a promise.

Adam only hoped he didn't live to regret making it.


	11. Chapter 10

TEN

"You're gonna _what?"_

Hoss Cartwright shook his head. He couldn't have heard Adam right.

Could he?

They were standing in the stable. Adam had asked him to follow him outdoors, makin' up some story about there bein' a horse he needed to take a look at. It'd been three days since Joe's fever broke, and little brother was downstairs for the first time, sittin' in the blue chair by the fire. He'd watched them go like he knew they was plannin' somethin'. The thing was, _he_ wasn't

Adam was.

"Hear me out," his older brother said.

"Hear you out? You're plumb crazy, Adam, if you think Pa's gonna let you take Little Joe anywhere near Finch Webb!"

"That's why I don't intend to tell him."

"You're gonna _lie_ to Pa?"

Older brother's nose wrinkled until it was right up next to his eyes. "No. Not exactly. I'm going to tell him the truth – just not all of it."

Adam was right smart. A sight smarter than he was. But right now, well, he seemed thick as a brick.

"So let me get this straight," the big teen began, "you're gonna tell Pa that Doc Martin ain't comin' back for a few days..."

"Which is true," his brother agreed.

"And that he asked you to bring Little Joe in to see him in town since he ain't?"

Older brother gave a curt nod. "That's right."

Hoss shook his head. "I didn't hear the Doc say nothin' like that."

"You weren't in on the conversation."

He planted his hands on his hips. "And just when did this here conversation happen to happen?"

Adam was unruffled. "You were in the kitchen, remember? Talking Hop Sing into allowing you to raid the ice box."

Hoss scowled. "I weren't in there that long."

"Long enough."

And people said the Chinese were inscrutable.

Hoss ran a hand through his reddish-blond hair and then clamped it on the back of his neck. "What makes you so all-fired sure Little Joe's ready to make this trip?"

Adam puffed out a breath of air. "He's not."

"Then what in _Tarnation_ do you think you're thinkin'?"

Older brother was silent for a moment, then he said, "All right. You tell me what you would do."

"About what?"

"Pa is out of danger, right?"

Hoss nodded. So the Doc had said before he left.

"So you and I are free to take off with Monty to hunt Finch Webb down."

His brother's jaw tightened. "Dang right!"

"And Little Joe is just going to stay home knitting socks."

Hoss frowned. "What?"

"You and I and Monty are going to hunt down the man who forced Joe to pull the trigger on his own father, and baby brother is going to meekly accept the fact that he can't go along and stay home engaging in some harmless activity."

Meek? Little Joe?

"Well, no..."

"No." Adam's lips were pursed. His hazel eyes narrowed. "So, what do you suppose Joe is going to do?"

Hoss scratched his head. "Foller us?"

"Yes, er...'foller' us. Precisely. Placing himself and probably _us_ in danger."

"Hop Sing could watch him."

"Hop Sing." Adam's lips pursed. He let out a little sigh like an exasperated school marm dealing with a particularly dull-witted student. "This would be the _same_ Hop Sing who watched Little Joe after Marie's accident. The same Hop Sing whose only job was to keep a five year old with him in the house until Pa put that horse down. And the same Hop Sing who felt so sorry for Joe that he went to fix him a special treat while little brother used the opportunity to follow Pa out of the house and into the corral and almost got trampled?"

The big man blew out a breath. "Yeah, that'd be the same one," he admitted with defeat. He thought a moment. "What about Ming-hua?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "What _about_ Ming-hua?"

That little gal was a bigger mess than little brother makin' mudpies.

"Yeah..."

Adam's gaze went to the house. "Face it, Hoss. If we go, we have to take Joe with us. It's the only way to keep him safe."

"By puttin' him in danger..."

His brother nodded. "Yes."

Hoss thought about it a moment and then shook his head. "Is that what you college-educated types call logical thinkin'?"

Adam's hazel eyes twinkled. "A wise man once said that logic is the art of going wrong with confidence."

The big man considered it for a minute – everythin', that was – Doc Martin's words, Pa's condition, Little Joe's ornery spirit, his own confusion, and Adam's, well, Adam's confidence.

He sure was a slick one, that older brother of his.

"Pa's gonna take a belt to you, older brother, I don't care how grow'd up you are."

"By the time he's able to, he'll have cooled off. Think about it Hoss. Most likely we'll ride out with Monty, find Finch, and be back within a day or two. Monty thinks he's holed up somewhere pretty close. Pa's only awake a few hours of the day. He doesn't have to know."

Hoss pinned his brother with his ice-blue eyes. "But he will. You _know_ he will. He's...Pa."

Older brother was silent for a moment. "You know I was thinking of leaving."

It was a statement. Coming out of the blue like it was, it was like a punch in the gut.

"Yeah."

"So, I'll leave."

He shook his head. "You ain't leavin', Adam. You never was."

Anger crept into his brother's tone. "Oh, so you know what I'm thinking now?"

"Sure do." At Adam's look, he went on. "You're thinkin' it's all your fault this happened since you was thinkin' of leavin' and went up to that mining camp 'cause you got a burr under your saddle about Pa not trustin' you due to what happened with Joe and Butch. You're all-fired sure if you'd been at the house Little Joe would never have been taken out of his bed and Pa wouldn't have been shot and we'd all be dressin' in our Sunday best now, headed for services lookin' pretty as jaybirds."

Adam scowled. "No, I'm not."

Meaning, _yes,_ he was.

"Adam, if you think takin' Joe to hunt for Finch is gonna keep you from feelin' guilty somehow about –"

Older brother looked startled. He didn't say a word for a minute, as if he was considerin' what he'd just said. Then, "I don't, Hoss. Honestly, this isn't about me. It's about Little Joe. He feels responsible for what happened to Pa. This is about...absolution."

There he went with one of them ten dollar words. "Ab-so what?"

"Pardon. Release." Adam's gaze returned to the house. It was almost like he was lookin' through the door and seein' Joe. "Baby brother needs to forgive himself."

"So you're thinkin'," he began, remembering what Adam had said earlier, "that we need to go wrong with confidence."

Older brother's cheek twitched. "In a _big_ way."

Hoss thought a moment and then blew out a sigh. "So when are you gonna tell Pa?"

"I'm not," Adam shot back. "You are."

"Now wait just a goldarned minute!"

"Think about it," he said. "Pa will suspect something if I tell him. He knows you're trustworthy."

"I ain't gonna be so trustworthy when he finds out I lied to him!"

"Left out part of the truth," Adam corrected.

The big man remained silent for several heartbeats and then said, "You missed your callin', older brother, you know that?"

The twitch settled into a half-smile. "You mean I should have been a lawyer?"

"I mean you should've been a snake oil salesman."

His brother's hazel eyes twinkled. "A noble calling, after all."

There just was no winnin' with him.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe felt like a snot-nosed wet-behind-the-ears kid all bundled up in his heavy coat and half the blankets the ranch house had. Pa'd been none to happy to hear that his older brothers were gonna take him to town, even if it was on doctor's orders, and had insisted Adam and Hoss make sure he didn't catch a chill. He'd been excited about it at first. Though he'd told no one, his side still hurt like heck and he had to be careful when he moved, but once the fever broke and he'd been able to eat, he'd gained strength back fast enough and was champing a the bit to do something.

'Course the something he really wanted to do no one was gonna let him do, which was go after Finch Webb.

He'd shouted 'til he was hoarse – and Pa had sent Hop Sing down from his room to issue a warning – about how no one was doing anything to look for that bad man and they all ought to be ashamed! What were they doin' in the house baby-sittin' him? Why weren't they out with Deputy Coffee or the sheriff, tracking down Rosey and Greg?

Why didn't they go away so he could do the same thing?

He'd had it all planned out. He was still kind of weak and his side was sore as a boil, so he knew he'd have to be careful. He was gonna take Cadfan out shortly after everyone else fell asleep and go to town. There was a man named Harry who always hung out in front of the saloon. He was a 'malicious witness', as Pa put it. In other words, he liked to gossip. He figured that if anyone would know anything about Finch Webb, it would be Harry. The old man sat on the porch of the saloon most of the day asking questions and dispensin' what Adam liked to call his 'dubious wisdom'. Joe shifted, pulling at the collar of his winter coat, which was itching. He knew the sheriff talked to the old man, so if anyone was likely to know what was goin' on with the posse that had been sent after Finch, it would be him.

He'd been sittin' in the blue chair in the great room last night plottin' and planning, when his brothers had come back into the house and announced that, in the morning, they were gonna take him exactly where he wanted to go!

God must be rewarding him for doing something right that he didn't know nothing about.

"You doing all right back there, Little Joe?" Hoss called back to where he was sitting in the wagon's bed.

"I'm dying of the heat!" he shouted back. The spring day was chilly, but not chilly enough to be bundled up like a baby on a winter sleigh ride. "Can't you stop this thing so I can peel off a few layers?"

"Now, Joe. You know we promised Pa we'd keep you all toasty warm."

"You're burning the toast!" he groused.

Both of his brothers laughed. It should have made him angry. But he was so happy to be out of the house, he found it hard to work up a lather.

'Sides, if he did, they'd just rewrap him even tighter.

Joe closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the feed sack Hoss had placed in the wagon's bed. He left his eyes open and stared at the crisp blue sky, thinking about God up there in His heaven. So much had happened in the last week or so that it was hard to take it in. He'd been so sick – Pa'd been _so_ sick – he'd hardly had time to think about the fact that he could have lost both Pa and Hoss – and maybe Adam too. Hoss made nothing of it, but that blow he'd taken to the head had been a mean one. And while Adam wasn't there when Pa was...shot...he came home right after. If he'd been a few minutes earlier, he would have walked right in on Finch Webb and could have been shot too.

 _Would_ have been shot.

Scooting down a little further, Joe let his eyes drift closed. When he was little, sometimes his Pa would read him stories from the Bible before he went to sleep. He liked the ones with battles and kings the most, because they were exciting. His favorite king was David. He kind of identified with him since David was sort of small for his age when he was a boy. There was that fight with Goliath. Nobody thought David could beat that giant, but he did. He won that battle and all the other battles he fought in order to gain his kingdom. But there were other stories about David. Ones that weren't as much fun. Right now he was thinking about how the king's own son turned on him and tried to take his kingdom. David had to run. He had to hide. He lost everything.

And yet, he was a man after God's heart.

He'd wondered then and, truth be told, wondered now why God let all those bad things happen to someone He loved, some said, more than anyone else. Joe's lips curled in a smile when he remembered what Pa had said when he'd asked him just that.

' _There are three kinds of storms, Joseph, that God lets into our lives. The first is for correction, when we've lost our way. The second is a protective one, to guard and to guide us. And the third, son,_ ' he'd smiled then, _'is for perfection.'1_

As he drifted off to sleep, Joe wondered which kind of storm he was in the midst of now.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben Cartwright shifted, easing the pain in his lower torso, and turned away from the window. Doctor Martin had told him to begin sitting up for an hour or so several times a day to stave off any threat of pneumonia. He'd had Hop Sing help him to the chair by the window so he could look out and watch his sons depart. He was still not entirely at peace with Joseph going into town with his brothers. It struck him as odd that Paul would want the boy bumping around in the back of a wagon or riding a horse so soon. Hoss had explained that Paul said that Joe's rib had knitted nicely and the physician thought it was high time for Little Joe to be up and about just like him. Being a young sprout, Paul said, he thought a trip into town would do the boy a world of good. It made sense.

So why did he feel so troubled?

"You're an old fool, that's why," the older man grumbled.

Sometimes he felt too old to be raising a high-spirited boy like Joseph. At times he wondered what God was thinking. If Joe had been his first, when he too had the energy and vitality of youth, it would have been so much easier. Rearing a quiet studious boy like Adam at forty-five would have been a joy, where, plain and simple there were times when raising up a mop-headed maverick like Joseph was nearly impossible. Still, the joy Joseph brought into his later life with his unbridled enthusiasm and mercurial nature was of a different kind. Little Joe didn't have a word for 'can't' in his vocabulary. He saw each and every day as a challenge and lived each one to the fullest. His youngest son made him see things in a different light, as if the world had just begun and all that lay before him were endless possibilities.

Yes, he loved that boy.

"Mister Cartwright?" a delicate voice intruded. "All right for Ming-hua to come in?"

Ben shifted his eyes without moving his torso. The young Chinese girl stood in the doorway of his room. She was carrying a fresh pitcher of water.

"Of course," he said.

"I did not want to disturb you," she said as she moved toward the bedside table. "Perhaps you were communing with the ancestors?"

Ben's lip twitched. With the oldest Ancestor of all, perhaps.

"How are you today?" he asked, wincing as he turned further.

The girl was pale. She looked like she'd lost weight and might blow away if a strong breeze came along. Her head hung down.

"Ming-hua worry for Miss Rosey."

He was concerned about Miss Rosey too. It galled him that he had to sit here, useless, while others went out to rescue her from that villain, Finch Webb. The doctor had warned him that, though the wound had been far less dangerous than he had first supposed, if he resumed any sort of normal activity too soon he might well tear the stitches loose and begin to bleed again.

In other words, no getting out of bed alone _or_ getting on a horse.

"Why don't you sit down for a moment?" he asked, indicating the chair by the bed that had been occupied by his sons until a short time ago.

"Hop Sing has much for Ming-hua to do."

"Well, Hop Sing works for me," he said with a smile, "so I don't think a minute or two would be out of order."

With a small nod, she did as he asked.

Ben studied her. She was a beautiful girl. His heart went out to her for the way she had risked her safety and left everything behind to save Joseph's life. If not for Ming-hua, he fully believed Wade Bosh would have had the time to get Little Joe on the _Sun Princess_ and sail away with him, perhaps forever.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

Her small fingers were entwined and moved on the lap of her silk dress like she was working dough. "There is nothing to do. Nothing Ming-hua can do!" she added with a bit of fire.

Guilt. Oh, he knew all about that.

"You feel you should have been able to stop those men from taking Rosey?"

"I did not even try!"

"As I understand it, you were tied up in the kitchen." As Ben straightened up and reached for her hand, he stifled a groan. "Child, there was nothing you could do to prevent it." He paused to regain his breath and then added, softly, "There was nothing _either_ of us could have done ."

The girl was still looking at her hands. She nodded and then lifted her tear-streaked face. "Ming-hua fears bad man will hurt Miss Rosey."

It was Ben's fear as well. He knew what Finch wanted from the beautiful woman and he knew she would choose death before she gave it to him. It was galling not to know what was going on with the search. He'd asked Adam to stop by the sheriff's office while they were in town to see what he could find out. His son doubted the lawman would be there, but he said he'd try.

He took her small fingers in his and squeezed them tightly. "We have to have faith, you and I. In our friends but, most of all, in God."

She sniffed. "God is all wise. Knows everything. He will take care of Miss Rosey." Ben felt a return of pressure on his fingers. Ming-hua smiled. "Take care of Mister Cartwright's sons as well."

Out of the mouths of babes.

Ben nodded, fighting his own tears. "Do you think," he asked, "that you could ask Hop Sing to prepare some of that chamomile tea he keeps in the kitchen and bring it up?" At her look he added, though he hated to admit it, "I'm feeling a little tired. I think perhaps it would be best if I go back to bed for a while."

As the young woman exited the room, Ben gingerly turned his body and his attention to the window. Adam had said that, if Joseph grew too weary, they might stay over at the hotel in Eagle Station for the night. Paul Martin had given him permission – if he felt up to it – to go down to the great room for an hour or so tonight. He'd thought about it, but there seemed to be little point. All that would come of sitting in that big empty room was to remind him that his sons were gone and he was alone.

A chill snaked down his spine at the thought, a reminder that the unthinkable almost _had_ happened.

Ben sighed.

His sleep, if and when it came tonight, would not be restful.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam had wondered if he was making a mistake when he hatched the scheme to bring Little Joe along on the hunt for Finch.

Now he _knew_ it was a mistake.

"Calm down, Joe, or I swear I will have Hoss turn this wagon around and take you straight back to the Ponderosa!" he snapped.

His baby brother looked anything but contrite.

"You can't do that, Adam! I got just as much right to be here as you and Hoss!"

He was right. He was also a very sick young man.

"You listen to Adam, Little Joe. You ain't listenin'," Hoss warned. "You're the only one got the power to put yourself on the sideline and you know it."

Adam nodded. "I didn't say you had no right to be here. After all I'm the one who lied to Pa so you _could_ be here!"

Hoss rolled his eyes over to him.

He shrugged. After all, it was the truth.

"But you just said..." Joe sucked in a breath. Adam saw his brother's hand go toward his ribcage, but he stopped just short of touching it. "You just said I had to stay with the wagon."

He walked over to Joe and took him by the shoulders. He was so young. Compared to him, he'd lived only half a lifetime. Joe tried to shrug him off, but he held on tight.

"Joe, I'm going to let you make that decision." As his brother opened his mouth, he held up a finger. " _After_ you hear me out. Finch Webb is a dangerous and desperate man. He probably thinks Pa's dead, which means he has nothing to lose. He's holding Rosey and possibly Greg and he will think nothing of using them as human shields."

"I know all that – "

"So, do you think – when we take him on – that we have to be top notch?"

Little Joe scowled. "Of course. What kind of an idiot do you take me for?"

He ignored that question.

"If Hoss and I are worried about you, will we _be_ top notch?"

Joe's jaw tightened as he knew it would. " _No_ one needs to worry about me. I can take care of myself."

This was the delicate part.

"I know you can." At Joe's hopeful look, he added, "Under normal circumstances. But Joe, you're far from normal." His lips quirked with an affectionate smile. "Oh, you hide it well. I doubt even Hop Sing noticed. But you're in a lot of pain."

"I'm fine."

Adam looked at him. Joe's color was better, but it was far from the normal hale and hearty shade one would expect with a thirteen year old boy. There were dark circles under his eyes and his cheek color was still high, foreboding another bought with fever. The black-haired man drew in a long breath. He hated to do it, but with Joe one picture was worth a thousand words.

He reached out and tapped his brother on his left side.

Joe sucked in air like a grounded fish.

"Hey! What'd...you do...that for?"

The tears in his little brother's eyes only added to Adam's concern. Maybe he should just take him back.

"Joe, you're sick."

Little Joe's jaw was tight. His nostrils flared. Adam expected a fight to end all finds. So it was to his consternation and hesitant delight when Joe admitted he was right.

"I'm right?" he blinked.

"If that big old ox of a brother of mine had driven that wagon a little better, I'd be fine." Little Joe struck away a tear that had escaped his eye to travel down his cheek. "Like being flung around in a chicken coop," he growled.

Hoss was no dummy. He took it up right there. "Well, now, little brother, I apologize. I know you could'a taken on that old Finch Webb all on your lonesome if I hadn't of been so clumsy."

Gratitude shone out of Joe's eyes. "Dang right, you big lump!"

Adam stepped forward to place a hand on his baby brother's shoulder. "Look, Joe. I want you to be as much a part of this as you can. I know... I know you have a special score to settle with Finch. That's why I let you come along. But from here on out you _have_ to do what I tell you. Do you understand? And if that means staying with the wagon, then you stay with the wagon." When Joe failed to respond he added, "You don't want to be responsible for Hoss or me, or maybe Rosey getting killed because your rib gave out on you at just the wrong moment. Now do you?"

Joe was looking at the ground, scuffing it with his boot. "I guess not."

"Good. Now let's get back in the wagon. We're supposed to meet Monty at the line shack." Adam sized up his brother's condition and decided to ask. "Do you need any help getting in the wagon?"

Joe shook his hand off. Then, instead of heading for the wagon, he stood there, breathing in and out slowly. Adam thought he was angry.

He was wrong.

"I guess maybe you could give me a hand," the boy said, his tone defeated.

Dear Lord.

They were in trouble.

1 Greg Laurie


	12. Chapter 11

ELEVEN

Rosey glanced at Rory where he crouched behind her, hidden in the early morning shadows that filled the small sordid crib. He gave her a nod and a quick smile. They'd come to be friends over the last six hours or so, but she had yet to reveal that they were so much more. She knew the emotional turmoil that was churning within her and didn't think it would do either of them any good for him to be caught up in the same storm. Once they got away – once Finch Webb was no longer a threat – _then_ she would tell him. He was a good man from what she could tell, in spite of the things he'd been led into. He'd risked his life to save her when he thought she was a stranger. If he knew she was his mother...

She couldn't chance losing her son after just _finding_ him.

Her son!

Rosey eyed the shadows and the figure concealed there again and smiled. She could see the boy in him whom she had lost, but also the man his father had been. This adult Rory had her coloring, but he favored Pat in just about everything else. His face and features. His build. And, sadly, in other ways. Pat had sometimes been too introspective – he thought too much. There was a melancholy about Rory. She suspected it came from having nowhere to belong. Finch's brother, Monty, it seemed, had done all he could do take her lost son under his wing. She would have to thank him for that.

If they all came out of this alive.

"Do you see anyone yet?" Rory asked, his voice quieted to almost a whisper.

She looked out the window. "No, not yet. But it should be soon."

Rosey glanced down at what was left of her elegant dress. She'd spent some time the night before tearing bits off, tucking it here and there; transforming it into the kind of thing she would have worn when she went by the name of _Silks_. It plunged down, revealing her ample cleavage, and had been hitched up to reveal one of her shapely legs. Rory had looked away while she made the adjustments and was still uncomfortable with her putting herself on display. She was grateful to see his still had his innocence.

The man who would come soon to clean the cribs would have lost his long ago.

She'd worked these places before and she knew the routine. Every morning a man came to empty the piss pots and supply the poor women who lived in them with fresh water and a smidgen of food. She hoped Finch had not made any special sort of arrangements where she was concerned. She doubted it, since he was trying to remain anonymous among the many men who frequented the establishment. After all, as he said, he had the only key.

Only he didn't.

A bang on the door made her jump. Rory slipped back further into the shadows.

"Out of the way!" a rough voice called.

Rosey moved to the door and stood so the light spilling in the narrow window would play across her exposed breasts.

"There's been a terrible mistake," she breathed, making sure they heaved. "Please, help me. I shouldn't be in here."

"That's what they all say," the man growled. "Now get away from the door! And don't you try nothin'. I'm armed."

Rosey stepped back into the crib as the man entered. He was a surly and sorry sight, around forty, not tall and rather broad, with missing hair and teeth. He went straight to the pot and tossed its contents into the larger one that he carried. Passing her again, he placed it outside and then returned with a water bucket and tray. As he turned to leave, she reached out and caught his shirt sleeve. He started to strike her away and then paused, really _seeing_ her for the first time.

"You're new," he grunted, his eyes growing bright.

"Yes. I told you I don't belong here." She stepped into the light that entered the open door. Careful to appear vulnerable, she used a meek tone. "Look at me. Can't you see I'm telling the truth?"

The truth was, sadly, that the poor creatures who usually occupied the cribs were wasted and often diseased. They had given up hope long before they were incarcerated. The men they serviced didn't even look at their faces.

This man was looking at hers now and seeing something he liked.

"You're a handsome one, you are," he remarked. "What'd you do to end up here with the whores?"

"I made someone mad," she said as she sidled up to him. Her hands knew where to go and she used everything she knew. "But I can make _you_ happy if you get me out of here."

He was panting now. One hand gripped her arm with force as the other circled her waist. Rosey held her breath against the sight and smell of him as he pulled her in and pressed his lips against hers.

"Make me happy _now_ and maybe I will," he growled as he pulled back.

"Excuse me."

Rosey froze at the voice and the sight of a finger tapping the man's shoulder.

"I believe this is _my_ dance."

A second later the man was on the floor. Rory glanced down at him, shoved him with his foot to make sure he was out cold, and then tossed aside the broken chair leg he had used to crack him over the head.

Rosey clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Tears entered her eyes a moment later as she reached out to place a hand alongside Rory's cheek. He looked at her oddly, as if the touch had awakened something in him.

Disengaging her hand quickly, Rosey knelt beside the man. She handed his gun to Rory and then began to check his pockets. A moment's search turned up a ring of multiple keys.

"Aha!" she said when she found it.

"What do we need those for?" Rory asked. "The door is already open."

Rosey stepped into the alley after him and looked down the long row of cribs.

"To open more doors."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Morning dawned and with it came a deeper and more disturbing sense that something was wrong. In spite of Paul's warnings, Ben had gotten himself up and dressed and was now making his way cautiously down the staircase. He was sick to death of his room and determined to spend most of the day between the great room and his office where he could be in the thick of things. There was no doubt the paperwork had piled up over the last week. Adam told him he had devoted a few hours to it here and there, but he'd had a hard time concentrating.

He doubted he would fair much better but he was determined to try.

As his boots hit the floor, Ben reached out to catch the newel post to steady himself. He was tempted to sit down right there and then on the bottom step and might have if Hop Sing had not chosen that exact moment to appear from out of the kitchen. It took a moment for the man from China to spot him.

He knew full well what would happen when he did.

"What Mistah Ben do out of bed?! Make doctor velly _velly_ unhappy!" Hop Sing shouted all the way to his side. Once there, he wagged a finger at him. "All the Cartwrights time not listen! Not know better, Hop Sing think you Little Joe!"

Ouch.

"I'm fine, Hop Sing. Paul told me to start getting out of bed – "

"Not by self. Say with help. Hop Sing help. Why you no call him?"

"Because I –"

"Because you stubborn as number three son and both more stubborn that mules! All time yell at youngest. You do same thing." This time that finger jabbed him in the chest. "Why not yell at self?!"

He had a point.

"You come down to eat breakfast?" the man from China asked, making his head spin with the sudden transition.

He knew better than to say 'no'. "Of course, I smelled that bacon frying and, well, I just couldn't stop myself from coming down. I'm afraid my desire to sample your fine cooking overrode Doctor Marin's orders."

What had he told the boys about white lies?

His cook and friend beamed. "Good! _Velly_ good! You hungry. _Velly_ _velly_ good! You go sit down. Hop Sing bring you coffee until food ready."

He was about dead on his feet. "Thank you, Hop Sing. That would be lovely."

The man from China looked him up and down. "It early in morning, but Hop Sing think Mistah Ben like little something extra in his cup?"

He chuckled and nodded. "That would be lovely too."

It was all he could do not to ask Hop Sing to help him to the chair, but he decided if he did where he would get helped to instead was his bed. Moving slowly, the rancher made his way across the room and dropped into the blue one because it was the closest.

As he sat there gazing around the room, noting all the beloved items in it, Ben suddenly remembered. This was the _first_ time he had been in the great room since that horrible night over a week before. He could see Hoss lying by the door, his head bleeding, so very still on the floor. And see that madman standing over him, threatening him with a gun. And Joseph, dear God! He could see his youngest fighting with that man, who was at least twice his size, struggling to take the gun away from him, reaching...his finger on the trigger...

"Mistah Ben all right?" a soft voice asked.

He looked up to find Hop Sing holding a china cup filled with steaming liquid. "Yes," he lied again. "Thank you."

Hop Sing did something then he rarely did. He laid his hand briefly on his shoulder. "Mistah Ben's sons okay. Mistah Ben okay too. God answer Hop Sing's prayers. He watch out for them. Keep all safe."

Ben nodded, too choked up for words. He managed to mumble another 'thank you' before the man from China moved away. When he'd regained enough composure to, he took a sip of the brandy-laced coffee. Relishing its warmth, he leaned back to rest his head against the chair.

At that moment there was a knock on the door.

"Too early for company!" Hop Sing groused as he made a detour and headed for it. When he opened it, he added, "What you do here so early?! Twenty miles from town. You no wash up and eat breakfast before coming?"

A deep voice answered. "I've been on the trail, Hop Sing. Is Ben at home?"

A moment later a moderate-sized man with black hair, wearing gray and a silver star on his chest, appeared in the doorway. He removed his hat as he stepped into the room and then held a hand out to keep him from rising.

"I was hoping to be able to see you, Ben," Sheriff Bill Olin said as he noticed him. "But, from what the Doc said, I wasn't expecting to see you downstairs, at least not yet."

"Mistah Cartwright no listen to Hop Sing," his cook said as he closed the door. "He no listen to doctor. Maybe he listen to you. You got badge!"

Bill looked like he didn't quite know what to say.

"Thank you, Hop Sing. That will be enough." Ben waited as his cook snorted and headed for the kitchen muttering in Cantonese before looking at the sheriff. "Why don't you join me for breakfast, Bill? With the boys gone, there will be more than enough."

"Your boys aren't here?" the dark-haired man asked.

"No." There it was – that _chill_ down the spine, for no apparent reason other than the sheriff had asked a question. "They went into town last night. Joseph was supposed to see Doc Martin this morning. I asked Adam to check in with you last night. You didn't see them?"

"No." Bill took a seat on the settee. He looked right at him. "Neither did Doc Martin. He's out of town for a few days."

Ben stiffened. "He's...what?"

The sheriff shook his head. A slow grin spread across his face. "I think you've been bamboozled by those boys of yours."

"But what for? Joseph is unwell. They can't mean to..." As Ben's eyes lit on the place where Joseph had laid, struggling with Finch, _desperate_ to protect him, a pit opened up in his stomach. "No. They wouldn't."

Bill's smile was gone. "I don't know if they did or they didn't, Ben, but what I do know is that man you hired – the one named Monty – isn't all that he seems." The sheriff reached into his pocket and pulled out a wanted poster. "That's him. There's one for the younger boy as well."

"Greg?" he asked as he focused on the likeness on the poster.

"Not for murder, just aiding and abetting a robbery. Still carries time."

Adam had mentioned that they were going to meet up with Monty on the way to town and travel together. From what he knew of the young man, he trusted him. He'd been honest and above board with them. So had his younger brother.

"Are you sure it's them?"

"Pretty sure. That sketch could be Monty. There isn't a likeness of the younger boy, just a description. But if it's one of them, it's both." The sheriff paused. "Ben, what's wrong?"

Fear gripped him. "What about the posse?"

"That's what I came out here to tell you," Bill replied. "Seems these two have been working things for years with that older brother of theirs. He's the bad one, wanted for murder several times over. The posse was all for giving up until a rider came in early this morning. Seems the bank was robbed in that little village outside Reno late last night. Eyewitnesses place Finch Webb at the scene." The lawman paused and determination entered his eyes. "We mean to take him. A bank teller and a woman were killed."

Ben's jaw tightened. "What about his brothers?"

"Not there. At least, no one saw them. I'm on my way to join Roy and the other men. We should have them soon." Olin paused. "You don't seem too happy about it."

"It's not that." Ben made sure the sheriff was looking at him. "Bill, are you aware that Finch has a hostage? When he attacked the ranch house, he kidnapped Rosey O'Rourke."

Bill thought a moment. "That lady just opened the millinery in town with that sweet little Chinese girl?"

"Yes." Ben's fingers gripped the arms of his chair. "And there's something else."

After a moment the sheriff prodded, "Well? What is it?"

"I think my sons have gone after Finch Webb."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hoss Cartwright removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. He was looking at Adam and Monty who were standing at the edge of the camp, keeping their conversation out of range of Little Joe's ears. Not that'd matter much. Joe'd fallen asleep in the back of the wagon the minute they stopped the night before and here the sun was up and heading toward noon and the little scamp was still sleepin'. They were about a mile out of that good-for-nothin' village name of Harriman that butted up against Reno like a boil on the backside. Monty'd been holdin' out on them. Back on the trail he told them he _thought_ he knew where Finch would be. Here, there was no thinkin' about it – he knew. He'd ridden out to talk to Finch that night after everythin' went wrong and made his brother believe he was still one of the gang. He told that bad man he was gonna join with them when the job went down, only he didn't. He rode back to them instead.

Monty'd been in on casin' the bank to begin with, back before they all went on that cattle drive. It was a little bank but there were one or two big men in that good-for-nothin' town that kept their money there. Since there were only a few people in the town, the sheriff worked at the bank as well and was there late at night, since that was the only time he had. Also let him keep a night watch. Weren't no deputies to be had. Finch had gone in and felt the situation out. That's why they'd decided to wait until after the drive. One of them bigwigs in the town had a huge deal goin' down and that bad man knew when they got back, they'd be able to steal enough to set them up, Finch said, maybe for life.

Monty'd snorted when he said that. Apparently Finch Webb went through money like water.

It had been on the cattle drive that Monty had decided he'd had enough. He was watchin' Greg bein' dragged into Finch's web of crimes more and more. This time, Finch meant to force the younger man to be a part of the robbery, rather than lettin' him watch the horses. Up until now, Greg's hands had been pretty clean.

Finch was hopin' he'd come out of this one with them covered in blood.

So, Monty had told Greg his thinkin' and Greg had been quick to agree. He was a good kid, Hoss thought to himself, kind of quiet and what Adam called in-tro-spective at times, but a good kid.

Rosey's kid.

Hoss anchored his hat back on his head. Imagine that. Greg being that that young'un of hers what Rosey thought had been killed all those years ago.

He wondered – wherever she was right now – if she knew.

When Hoss stopped thinkin' and paid attention again to what was goin' on around him, he realized Adam was standin' beside the wagon lookin' at Joe. Older brother reached out a hand and then shook his head.

A second later he was headed for him.

"I made quite a mistake this time," Adam admitted, turning back to glance at the wagon, "and Joe's paying the price for it."

"Ain't he just sleepin'?"

"Oh, he's asleep, all right. Didn't stir when I touched him."

That statement said a lot. "Fever back?"

Adam nodded. "He's really pale. Breathing kind of hard too."

Hoss considered the situation for a moment. "That ain't gonna stop him."

His brother snorted. "I know. That's why I brought him along. I was afraid this would happen and he'd end up out there somewhere in the woods by himself with a killer on the loose."

And they both knew what that would have meant.

"Then it weren't a mistake you made, was it?" he asked softly.

Adam's body was tense. It relaxed – a little bit. "I guess not." He paused. "You know he can't go with us after Finch."

He knew it. And he knew what 'it' meant. " 'Us' bein' you and Monty?"

His brother looked truly sorry. "I hate to leave you behind. I could use you, and I know you need to be there when Finch is brought to justice just as much as I do. As Little Joe does."

"Yeah, but there's somethin' I need even more."

Adam's black eyebrows asked the question.

"I need to see that little scallywag safe. Much as I want to catch Finch Webb, it ain't worth Joe's life."

His brother's lips turned up at the end in a half-smile. "You may have to sit on him to keep him from following."

"Nah. The boy cain't do with no more broken bones. Puny as he is, he ain't gonna out wrassle or out run me."

"You _could_ head back home."

He thought about it a moment. "I could, but I don't think that's fair to Little Joe. It took a lot for him to pull himself together and come with us. Seems only right he sees it through to the end." The big teen's eyes flicked to the wagon and back. "Still worried about that fever though."

"It's not too high right now and, really there's not much more could be done at home than we can do for him here." Adam thought a moment. "Maybe Harriman has a doctor. I'll see if I can find one and send him out before we follow Finch's trail."

"You want we should stay right here?"

Older brother frowned. He was thinkin'. "Why don't you go back a few miles along the road. If I remember right, there was a cluster of rocks to the side of the road, with a chink just about as deep as a cave. Do you remember it?"

Sure did. They had one along the road to Eagle Station it reminded him of.

"You'll be sheltered there. Plus it will be...easier to defend should the need arise." Adam turned and started to walk away. He stopped abruptly and pivoted on his heel to face him. "Hoss..."

He nodded. "I know."

This might be the last time they saw one another alive.

"Watch out for Joe," older brother said, not needin' to say no more.

"You watch out for yourself," he replied, breaking the unwritten code.

Adam nodded, and then he went to join Monty. A moment later the two of them rode away.

Hoss watched them go and then went over to the wagon to check on Little Joe. By the time he got there, baby brother was tossin' and moanin' in his sleep. He hated to wake him 'cause he knew he was plumb wore out, but he couldn't just let him go on sleepin' either. It was plain as the nose on his face from _what_ the boy was mumblin' that Joe was scared out of his wits.

Curious thing was, it weren't of Finch Webb.

"No," Joe wailed. "No, don't...leave me. Rats... Rats will..eat me. Pa! _Please Pa, help me!"_

It'd been more than a year since Pa had rescued him, but for Joe it seemed like what he'd gone through'd never ended. There'd been other nightmares before, just like this one, where he was back on that there ship – back in that rat-infested hell where Wade Bosh left him.

"Pa, no..." Joe's brow furrowed. Tears ran down his cheeks. "Not...Pa. Never... Save Pa. Have to save..."

Baby brother groaned and sucked in air. That could mean only one thing.

He was ready to let out a soul deep scream.

Quick as a lick, the big teen hopped up in the wagon and placed a gentle hand over his brother's mouth to silence him.

"Joe. Little Joe! It's Hoss. You gotta wake up, boy."

Joe stiffened and then, as he'd feared, began to struggle harder. " _Llt..mm..ggg!"_ his brother cried into his hand and then...

He'd be danged, if the little son of a gun didn't bite him!

Ignoring the sting, he shook him again. A little less gently this time. "Joe! Now don't you shout out! It just ain't safe. I promise, ain't no one gonna hurt you. It's old Hoss' got you. Old Hoss'll make everythin' okay."

His brother struggled a moment longer and then seemed to slump. Joe blinked several times as his wide glassy eyes rolled over and fixed on him.

"Hoss...?"

Hoss released the breath he didn't realize he'd drawn. "Yeah, it's me, punkin."

He placed a hand on his brother's forehead as he spoke to check for fever. He'd expected Joe to buck like a bronco to get away from him. When he didn't, it told him all he needed to know.

"Where's...Adam?" little brother asked.

"He's with Monty. They're scoutin' ahead." Hoss winced at what his Pa would call a 'white' lie. "You just rest. You gotta build up your strength up if you're gonna see this through."

"Scoutin'...?"

"Yeah. They'll be back soon."

Little Joe seemed to calm at that. He blinked those large green eyes several times. Each time the seconds between openin' and closin' them grew longer, until at last they remained closed. Finally, sure the little scamp was asleep, Hoss rocked back on his heels and tipped his hat back and let out a long, low sigh.

As he did, Joe stirred one final time. "Hoss...?"

He touched his brother's arm to let him know he was there. "Yeah, Little Joe?"

"Thanks."

"Shucks, you know I wouldn't let nothin' happen to you, little brother."

"No..." Joe let out a sigh of his own. "Thanks for... _being_ my brother."

And then he was out like a light.

Hoss remained there, crouched in the wagon bed for several heartbeats, and then he hopped down and stood at its side. With a last look at Little Joe to make sure he was sleepin', the big teen moved off and began to tear down their camp. If God was good, there'd be only one more camp to make. Adam and Monty would catch that bad man lickety-split and they'd be on their way home afore nightfall. It was a fair bet they'd run into Sheriff Olin's posse on the way back. If they did, he or Deputy Roy could take charge of Finch Webb and whatever other outlaws was with him and take them on to Eagle Station while they headed home. There was gonna be hell to pay once Pa realized what they'd done. That older brother of his was slicker than a buttered gut when he wanted to be, but he wasn't sure even Adam could talk his way out of this one.

They'd probably be mucking out stalls and cleaning out cisterns until the steers came home.

The _next_ spring.

Between thinkin' and packin, Hoss was so busy he forgot to pay attention. That's how he missed the movement in the trees. In fact he was completely unaware that they had company until he heard it.

The cocking of a hammer and a shout to raise his hands over his head.


	13. Chapter 12

TWELVE

It was hard to believe, but Hop Sing managed to continue to unroll a string of Chinese curses and epithets long enough to reach from where they were on the road all the way back to the Ponderosa. Ben had no idea whether the Chinese man was complaining about the weather – which had turned cold for early June – or the sun in the sky – which was intense – or about the fact that he was sitting in the back of the wagon disturbing the order of the plethora of food, water, blankets, pillows, medicine bottles and bandages he had so neatly stored there. Both his cook and Sheriff Olin, who rode ahead of them with several deputized men, had tried to dissuade him from coming along in pursuit of Finch Webb. The truth was, while he was concerned about Webb and wanted the outlaw to be captured, his focus had to be his sons.

Once he knew they were all right, he would be able to turn his attention to finding Rosey and bringing the villain to justice.

When they hit a particularly large bump in the road and the wagon lurched and he cried out, Hop Sing pivoted in the driver's seat to shake a finger at him.

"You no complain! Mistah Ben should be home in bed. Fool does what he cannot avoid. Wise man avoid what he cannot do!"

The word stung. ' _Fool_ '. How many times had he called _himself_ that? 'Fools make poor fathers,' he'd said often enough.

Ben knew Hop Sing was right. He knew it was foolish to have gone downstairs in the first place, let alone to be traveling over rough roads at a good clip in the back of a supply wagon. There was a very real danger his stitches would tear open. Paul Martin had chided him that he wasn't a young whippersnapper any more and if he didn't mind his manners, he'd end up with a return of the infection and maybe a killing fever. Hop Sing was rightly worried that he might begin to bleed again and had told him so in no uncertain terms before they set out. Ben leaned his head back against the piled up sacks the man from China had used to create a kind of chair for him. He'd tried to explain to his cook and friend that there was no 'might' about it. He was _already_ bleeding – in his heart, for his sons. At first he'd been angry with them – especially Adam who was old enough to know better – and when he found them, he would make a good show that he still was. But beyond the anger there was a deep pride in these three young men whom he had reared as best he could without their mothers. Three brave young men who saw a duty that needed done and had moved heaven and earth to do it.

Caught between anger with and admiration for his boys, the rancher let out a deep sigh.

"Mistah Ben not fool," Hop Sing said softly. "He wise man."

Ben peered over his shoulder at the other man. "Oh?"

The man from China nodded. "A fool thinks himself to be wise. Only wise man knows he is a fool."

Ben snorted. "Which Chinese ancestor said that?"

Hop Sing shifted his grip on the reins. Without looking back, he deadpanned, "Shakespeare Sing."

A moment later Ben gripped his side.

It felt good, but it hurt to laugh.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Frustrated, Adam kicked a clod of dirt and sent it flying along the dusty all-but deserted main street of Harriman. Since the robbery the night before the good citizens of the town – all two hundred or so of them – had rolled up the streets, pulled down the blinds, and gone into hiding. It had taken several hours of rapping on doors – and a good bit of yelling – to get anyone to respond, and when they did respond the results were less than satisfying.

Slowly, he'd been able to piece together what had happened.

The town had turned in for the night as usual around midnight. Apparently carousing until dawn was not a common event in Harriman since there were no big spreads or mines to open the flood gates and let lose in a tide of hungry, thirsty, and more than a little bit bored men. In fact, the woman who ran the only saloon in town looked like a school marm. She'd been the one to finally take pity on them and invite them in and give them a bit of a midday meal as well as some useful information.

The sheriff in Harriman was a man by the name of Roman Wild. He'd scratched his head over that one as Prissy – yes, that was her name – the prim and proper madame, led them to a table and then ordered her cook to make up some sandwiches and bring a pot of coffee. As Prissy talked he began to suspect that there was something _more_ than friendship between her and Roman. That went a long way to explain the tremble in her voice and the way she wrung her hands as she told them that the sheriff had been shot and was at the doctor's office. Adam made a mental note of that. There _was_ a doctor in town. He was pleased as well to hear it was only a flesh wound since, willing or not, he was going to make that doctor ride out and take care of Little Joe.

The only witness said the robbers rode into town just after midnight. Sadly, the only witness was a drunk who slept on the saloon's porch most nights. He said there had been four of them. From the inebriate's description of the leader, Adam was sure it was Finch Webb. Another one sounded like his chief henchman, Abel Simms. The men went straight to the bank and began pounding on the door like they had some important business to conduct. Now, having a sheriff as a bank employee is a good thing. After all, who could keep the bank safer? At least, it would have been a good thing if the sheriff wasn't fairly young and more than a little bit cocky and so sure that no one could rob a bank while he was in it that he'd open the door to strangers after midnight.

Adam smashed another clod of dirt with his toe.

A fool and his money...

At first the robbery went off without a hitch. The shades had already been drawn and no passerby – if there had been any – would have wondered at a light inside since Roman might be doing some late night work. The problem came when Wild's young wife – and, yes, he had a wife in spite of the marm of a madame – came to bring him an after-midnight snack. The witness said the sheriff convinced Finch they needed to let her in. Roman told them she was a hellcat and if they didn't, she'd break the door down suspecting that he had someone else in there with him.

Like Miss Prissy.

So Mrs. Wild ended up inside the bank where she apparently lived up to her name, managing to crack Finch over the head with a lamp before attempting to escape.

A bullet in her back stopped her.

The prim and proper madame sniffed at this and expressed her condolences – all the while failing to keep the lustful twinkle out of her eyes.

The sheriff's wound was not as serious The bullet went in and out of his shoulder clean. Finch and his crew packed up all the cash they had managed to gather and high-tailed it out of town, killing another man along the way just because he was standing in the middle of the street.

Adam glanced at the sheriff's office, wondering whether or not it was time to go in. Roman Wilds was _not_ in, but he'd seen one of the deputized citizens go in there shortly after dawn. A small band of men had taken off immediately after the robbery in pursuit of the outlaws, but had no luck. They'd returned about the same time and were over at the saloon having a bite to eat before heading out again. They were a ragtag collection of farmers, businessmen, and boys. He doubted anything would come of their search.

And so he was here, waiting on the so-called deputy to let him into the office so he could verify the sheriff's mistress' tale before he and Monty set off in pursuit of what was probably one of the most dangerous men in all of the Nevada territory.

A dangerous man who not only held a grudge against his little brother, but also against the woman Adam was pretty sure his father was falling in love with.

And then there was Rory...

"Oh, what a tangled web," the classicist sighed.

"Mister Cartwright?"

Surprised, Adam pivoted on his heel to find a pretty young thing standing behind him. She was about chin-high to him, with wavy dark brown hair and clear blue eyes. She hardly looked older than Joe, though from the costume she wore – a teal dress wrapped like a second skin around her slender figure – he guessed she was.

He certainly _hoped_ she was.

"How can I help you, miss?" he asked.

She smiled at the title. "Prissy sent me to find you."

"Oh? May I ask why?"

"That man that robbed the bank," she began without preamble. "Miss Prissy remembered she'd seen him before. He came into town a few days back and rented a room at the saloon and one of the cribs."

Odd, since renting a room meant a long stay and renting a crib meant, well, something else entirely.

"That's a bit unusual, isn't it? To rent both?"

The girl's head bobbed. He kept looking for the school girl braids, but they weren't there.

"That's why Prissy remembered it. She said he was mean as a polecat and, well, you know, not the _right_ type. She felt sorry for the woman he put in the crib."

"He put a woman in the crib? He didn't..." Then he had it. Rosey. "Go on."

"She was a real pretty lady, not the kind you find in them places." The girl shivered as she wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "No one wants to work one of them." The girl paused. "There was a young man put in there with her."

Adam scowled. The 'young man' had to be Greg.

"Why do you suppose he put both a woman and a young man in the crib?" he asked.

The girl's pert nose wrinkled. "Mister, you're younger than you look if you can't figure _that_ one out."

Adam looked at her and wondered at that moment just _how_ old this girl's soul had grown in the seventeen or eighteen years she'd walked the earth. If it had _been_ that many.

"What's your name?"

"Why do you want to know?" she asked, suddenly defensive. "You ain't gonna report me or nothing?"

He gave her his warmest smile. "Well, I can't keep thinking of you as 'girl', now can I?"

"Lacey."

"Well, Lacey, first of all thank you for talking to me. Second, I have one last question."

She looked wary. "What's that?"

"Did you see either the woman or the young man up close?"

Her jaw set. This was dangerous talk. Finally, she nodded.

"Can you tell me what they looked like?"

Lacey shrugged. "I only saw them once, when they was being taken out back. The woman was real pretty. Refined, you know? She had dark hair and was wearing a fancy dress that would have cost me six month's salary. The young man looked kind of like her, only not. He had brown hair too. It was real wavy and thick."

The last was reported with a sigh.

It had to be them.

"Can you take me to them?" Adam asked, trying but failing to mask his excitement.

"No."

Adam blinked. "No. Why not?"

"Because they ain't there anymore." Lacey's blue eyes darted toward the establishment where she worked and her lips curled at the ends – just a bit. "Ain't _any_ of them there anymore."

"Them?"

She smiled this time – broadly. "That woman, she tricked that old Rusty who empties the piss pots. She took his keys and before she left, she opened all the cribs!"

Adam nodded.

"That would be Rosey."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Miss Rosey, danged if you didn't just about make my skin crawl right up over me!" Hoss Cartwright proclaimed as he lowered his hands. Relief didn't begin to say what he felt when he saw that pretty brown-haired lady in her tattered dress step right out of the trees with Greg Webb followin' close behind. He'd been the one who'd called out – and was the one holdin' a gun. "It sure is good to see you two!"

Rosey looked equally as relieved. "We heard something and were afraid it was Finch," she said, her tone makin' it clear what she thought of that weasel.

"You okay?" he asked as he looked closer. Both Rosey and Greg had cuts on their exposed skin, most likely from moving too fast through the trees, but Miss Rosey's dress, well, the way it was tore told a story all in itself and it weren't a good one.

She noted where he was lookin'.

"I'm all right, Hoss," she said. "Greg will tell you I did most of this myself. It...aided in our escape."

 _Greg._ He noticed she was still using her son's other name. Hoss glanced at the young man. Greg looked protective but not, well, _possessive,_ he guessed.

Maybe she hadn't told him.

"You two look limp as worn out fiddle strings," he said. "Why don't you sit yourself down and I'll rustle you up some grub."

Rosey was shaking her head before he finished. "No. Finch is on the loose. By now, he's been to the saloon and discovered we're gone. He's bound to be on our trail."

"Even though he's got the money from the robbery?"

"Oh, yes. Finch Webb is not a man to accept defeat, much less at the hands of a woman. He won't leave me be until one of us is dead." She paused and then added softly, her face wrinkling with concern. "The same goes for a boy."

A cold hand gripped and twisted his innards. She was talkin' about Little Joe.

Little Joe who was sick and sleepin' not twenty feet away.

"Damn," he sighed.

Rosey glanced at Greg and then back to him. Whatever that thing was they called 'women's intuition' Miss Rosey had it in spades.

"Oh no, don't tell me Joseph's here!" she exclaimed.

As if on cue, little brother's curly head crested over the side of the wagon. "Somebody...call me?" his asked, his tone laced with sleep and pain.

Hoss swallowed hard. Rosey was pinnin' him with a fiery stare while Greg headed off to check on Little Joe.

" _What_ were you thinking?"

The big man wrinkled his lips and pushed his hat back on his head. "Well, Miss Rosey, Adam and me, we was thinkin' that's Joe's just about as stubborn as they come and if we went off to hunt that there bad guy without him, he'd come right after us. What with his bein' hurt and all, we was afraid he'd put hisself in danger..."

"So you decided to _thrust_ him into it instead?" she snapped. "Of all of the idiotic, hair-brained... Leave it to a man to think that putting a sick boy in danger is the way to keep him _out_ of danger." Rosey's hands went to her hips. "The whole _lot_ of you were missing from the line the day God handed out brains!"

Hoss was smiling.

Rosey wasn't. She was scowlin'.

"Did I say something funny?"

He cleared his throat. "Sorry, Miss Rosey, it's just...for a minute there...you reminded me of my mama."

He'd always heard a woman could melt, but he'd be danged if this wasn't the first time he'd seen it happen!

Tears flooded her eyes and she turned away quickly. The motion drew his attention to Greg, who was helping Little Joe down and out of the wagon. A second later Joe took off into the trees like a shot. Rosey's long lost son followed close behind him.

Knowin' little brother he'd refused any help.

When Rosey swung back, all the color had drained out of her cheeks. She looked miserable. "I'm sorry, Hoss. I shouldn't have..." The older woman drew a breath. "I'm not your mother."

He indicated the trees with a nod. "But you are Greg's."

That startled her. "How do you...?"

"Brother Adam. Don't much get by him," he said with a wink. "I take it you ain't told him yet."

She shook her head.

"Well, it ain't any of my business, but if you don't mind my askin', why not?"

The older woman stared at the spot where Little Joe and Greg had disappeared. "I'm being selfish."

He scowled. "What do you mean?"

"It's still..." She drew herself up. "It's still not...real. I see him, but I cant believe _he's_ real.It's been enough of a shock for me. I don't want to..." Rosey sighed. "I want time to talk, to listen and to explain. Time to...feel both the pain _and_ the joy."

"And you cain't do that out here on the run."

She sighed. "See what I mean? I'm being selfish."

Thinkin' about his mama and what he'd say to her if she just up and walked back into his life, Hoss thought he understood a little of what she was goin' through.

"Now, I don't like to contradict a woman, but Miss Rosey, you got it all wrong."

"Oh?"

"It ain't only yourself you're thinkin' of, it's Greg too."

"Rory."

"Pardon me?"

"I keep forgetting. He...wants to be called Rory." Rosey's smile was sad. "Oh, he doesn't remember me or his father, but he _does_ remember that the name he had before Finch took him was Rory. He's using it now."

Pa always told him there were blessings in the storm. This was sure one of them.

Rosey's hand touched his arm. She nodded toward the trees. "They're coming back. What are we going to do about Joseph?"

He'd seen it too. Little brother had barely been on his feet when he went to relieve himself. Weren't no way he was doin' anythin' but goin' back into that wagon.

"I ain't right sure, Rosey. That little brother of mine, the more you tell him 'no', the more he's sure he's got to do a thing – especially if he thinks somethin's wrong and needs righted, or someone he loves is in danger."

"Hmmm."

He wasn't sure he liked the look on her face.

"Hmmm?"

"Perhaps Joseph could be persuaded that I need to be taken back to the Ponderosa and he is just the young gentleman to do it." She pulled a bit of the tattered cloth folded around her neckline out and put on a weary face. "Most young men are pushovers for a damsel in distress."

Hoss snorted. "And here I thought older brother was sneaky."

"Give him time," she replied as she turned to face the pair who approached them. "I've got at least twenty years on Adam."

"Hey, big brother," Little Joe called as he approached. "How's it goin'?"

Joe was puttin' on a show, holdin' himself straight and pretendin' it didn't feel like a mountain cat was clawin' at those damaged ribs of his. But his eyes told the truth. They was fevered and carryin' their own saddlebags.

Fact was, it didn't look like it'd take much more than a breath to make him fold up like a purse.

"Hey there, Joe," the big teen responded, careful to keep his tone playful. "Did I miss that cat?"

His brother looked puzzled. "Huh? What cat?"

"The one that done drug you in, boy," he said with a smile.

"Now is that anyway to greet a feller? Pickin' on him as soon as you see the whites of his eyes?" Joe huffed. "You oughta be grateful I'm here to keep you in line." Joe paused. He looked around.

Here it came.

"Where's Adam?"

Hoss drew a deep breath and let it out with words. "He and Monty went on ahead to look for Finch."

"They... _what?"_

Little Joe's hackles went up faster than just about anyone he knew. "They's plannin' on comin' back tonight," he lied. "Should be sometime soon."

Joe's thick eyebrows were wrinkled. He was workin' on whether or not he was takin' him up the pike. The boy glanced at Rory, who shrugged, before turning back to him.

"Adam promised!" he challenged. "Adam promised I could be there when he took Finch down."

"Well, I ain't there either, little brother, so I don't think you got nothin' to worry about."

Joe's breathing became more rapid. He sucked in air through his nose and let it out the same way. "I gotta be there, Hoss," he insisted. "You know I do. What I did... Pa..."

Rosey was standing beside Joe. She'd been listenin' and actin' like everythin' was right as rain. All of a sudden she swayed and liked to fall down. Joe saw her out of the corner of his eyes and reached out. After catchin' her, he managed to make it look like he was lowerin' her to the ground.

Actually the two of them kind of sat down together.

Little Joe was so cute. He took off his neckerchief and started fannin' her with it. "Are you all right, Miss Rosey?" his little brother asked.

Rory had gone to get his ma a cup of water. Hoss didn't know if he was aware that she was play actin'. He sure hoped he didn't worry too much.

Rosey took a sip of water and then smiled t Joe. "I'll be fine. It's just, well, it's all a bit much for a woman, you know – all this danger and excitement? I'm fair worn out."

"You could take a rest in the back of the wagon," Joe said. "It's not much, but there's a big sack of grain you can lay your head on and some blankets."

"Thank you, Joseph," the older woman said. Joe staggered a couple of steps forward as she accepted his hand. Hoss didn't miss Joe's quick glance toward him to see if he'd noticed.

He pretended he hadn't.

"I'm sorry. I...think I am a bit overwhelmed," Rosey said as she leaned into Joe's strength. A second later she added, "Young man, could I ask you a _huge_ favor?"

Little Joe squared his shoulders as if readying to accept whatever load she wanted to place on them.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Might I prevail upon you to take me back to the Ponderosa in that wagon of yours? This is all too much for me."

Hoss could see the wheels workin' in them green eyes of Joe's. Little brother was weighin' his need to be there when they took Finch Webb out against what their Pa had taught them about bein' a gentleman with women.

Finally, Joe looked at him, his eyes wide and those thick brows of his wigglin'.

Hoss let out a sigh. "I don't know, Miss Rosey. I mean, Adam and me, we really need Joe. He held his own against Finch before and – "

She shuddered at the name. "That monster! He...well...he _wasn't_ a gentleman. I can't bear to think of him finding me and holding me again. I – "

"I'll get you home, Ma'am," Joe said firmly. "You can trust me to make sure you're safe from that outlaw."

"Are you certain?" she asked. "I mean, if your brothers _need_ you –"

"I'll help," Rory said, havin' caught on and aidin' and abettin' their plan. "I'll go with Hoss. You can follow, Joe, once you get Rosey back to the ranch house."

Joe was starin' at the wagon with an expression on his face that seemed to say climbin' up into that seat might just be too much for him at the moment.

Shakin' off his fatigue, Joe said, "I'll see you to the Ponderosa and leave you with my pa, ma'am. Hoss, I'll head back as..soon as I can."

Rosey caught Joe's hand in hers and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, Joseph. You have no idea how safe it makes me feel to know that I have a Cartwright man escorting me."

Joe's chest puffed out like a peacock's. "You can count on me, Miss Rosey."

Hoss sized up Joe. Baby brother was doin' a good job of pretendin', but the boy looked about as limp as a neck-wrung rooster. He had a feeling – by the end of the trip – that it might be Miss Rosey escortin' Little Joe to the house. Pa'd be right happy when he seen him come in that door, and happier still when Rosey followed. Pa had a soft spot for that gal.

Truth be told, so did he.

Clappin' Joe on the shoulder, Hoss said, "Let's make sure you got everythin' you need to travel, little brother. We sure don't want no surprises along the way."

If wishes were horses...


	14. Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Rosey glanced sideways at her traveling companion. Little Joe was so adorable. Of course, she'd never let the young man occupying the driver's seat of the wagon know that was how she felt. He was at that same stage – and almost the same age – her son Rory had been when Finch Webb took him. Looking at Joseph with his jaw set and his chin thrust out defiantly, as if sheer will alone could halt the progress of the fever he was fighting, the years melted away. She had disagreed with Pat the day Rory had gone to help with the birthing of Mrs. Henderson's child. Her husband said he needed him, but for some reason, _that_ day, she had needed Rory as well and wanted to keep him with her. Perhaps it was the fact that she too was with child that had put her on edge.

Perhaps it had been some kind of an intuition.

Rory had rooted himself firmly in the drawing room – looking very much like Joseph Cartwright did right now – his hands crossed over his chest, resolute and determined. She'd expected an argument. Instead, her twelve-year-old son had presented a compelling case for why he needed to go. At that moment she had seen in Rory a budding maturity that foretold of the day when he would no longer need her, and it nearly broke her heart. In the end, she had given in and let him go. Still, ill at ease, she'd gone to Patrick. She'd hoped to convince him to take her along as well. Pat refused. He declared a jostling wagon on the open road was no place for a woman so close to her time, and so she had watched them drive away and never seen either one of them alive again.

Until now.

A small sound escaped the lips of the boy sitting next to her. Rosey looked at Ben's son again and noticed his color was off. In fact, he looked like he might be about to be sick.

"Joseph?"

The boy swallowed hard over it and turned to look at her. "Ma'am?"

"Do you think we could stop for a moment? I feel the need to stretch my legs."

They'd been on the road for a little over two hours and had gone, perhaps, five or six miles. They were hoping to make it to the rock formation Adam had mentioned, but she was wondering if they would. The sun was nearly set and it was growing dark.

"Or maybe we should just make camp?" she added, careful to make it a suggestion and not an order. Knowing this young man, any indication that she thought _he_ needed to stop would be quickly challenged.

Joe made a kissing noise and called the horses to a halt, then pivoted to look at her again. She held her feelings in check when she saw the thin sheen of sweat coating his pale skin.

"Do you need to?" he asked as a little shiver snaked through his thin frame.

She also held in check her desire to wrap a blanket around this sick child and draw him close.

It was out of the question, of course.

Rosey glanced up at the sky. "There can't be more than a half to three quarters of an hour of light left at most. Will we reach the rocks Adam spoke of by then?"

"We might and we might not," he said, trying to sound adult instead of exhausted. "It all depends on the road and how tired the horses are."

She glanced at the pair of bays that pulled the wagon. "They look as tired as I feel," she said with a weary smile.

Joseph nodded. "I reckon they are. They didn't get much time to rest before we set out." He stopped and seemed to puzzle over something for a minute before speaking. "I've been on this road before. There's not much around here. No caves or anythin'."

"Can't we sleep in the wagon?"

Joe grinned. "Better to sleep _under_ it. That way you don't get so much wind and if it rains, you stay dry." His green eyes, which were fever-bright, shifted then to the trees and tall grasses surrounding them. "Easier to defend too."

Of course she knew that, but it had brightened his aspect to let him suggest it.

"Have you seen anything suspicious?" she asked, suddenly concerned.

"No, ma'am. Just bein' cautious, if you know what I mean."

Rosey continued to stare at him for a moment, and then she said, "Thank you, Joseph."

He looked surprised. "For what?"

"For being such a diligent young man and for taking such good care of me."

Little Joe's cheeks were already rosy from the fever. Their color deepened. "It's nothin', Miss Rosey. I'm glad to do it." The boy hesitated a moment and then added, with a cheeky grin. "Besides Pa would have my hide if I let anything happen to you."

"Joseph Cartwright! What are you implying?" she responded, doing her best to hide her grin.

"I ain't implying anythin'," he said. "I'm sayin' it out right. I think Pa's sufferin' with Cupid's cramp."

This time she did laugh. "What?"

Little Joe looked stricken. "Sorry, Ma'am. I guess that was out of place. It's what old Dan Tolliver says when one the hands falls head over heels for a pretty girl."

Rosey drew a breath. This was uncharted territory. "Would you mind, Joseph, if Cupid's arrow struck your Pa?"

His lips pursed and those mobile brows of his rippled and then pulled down in the middle.

"Joseph?"

He let whatever he was thinking out in a little sigh. "I guess I wouldn't mind, Miss Rosey. I think... Well, Pa deserves to be happy. He was so happy with mama." The boy blinked. Tears were close. "I sure wish I remembered her."

Rosey reached out and took hold of his hand. It was hot and that concerned her, but she went on as if she hadn't noticed. "I would never try to take your mother's place, Joseph. I just want to be your friend."

He frowned for a moment, looking very serious, and then said, "If you want to be my friend, I can tell you how you can start."

"Oh?" She released his hand. "And how is that?"

"By calling me Joe. Only my Pa calls me Joseph and that's usually when he's mad as spit on a griddle."

The older woman laughed. "Joe, it is then. If you promise to call me Rosey. No more Miss or ma'am."

"I'm not sure Pa would like that."

She made a show of looking from one side to the other. "I don't see him anywhere."

He laughed. "All right, Rosey it is."

Joe let the reins drop and rose in the wagon seat. She noticed how stiffly he did so and how careful he was when lowering himself to the ground. When the boy held his hand out to her, she took it and joined him beside the wagon.

"I'll go get some firewood," he said. "While I'm gone, why don't you get the blankets out of the wagon and spread them underneath it? There's quite a few since Pa was so worried about me travelin'. I liked to die I was so..." He corrected himself. "I thought I was gonna burn up."

"Well, it's chilly now," she said, ignoring the words spoken out of turn. "I saw your heavy coat in the back. We can use that too."

"There's food in the wood box by the big sack. Hop Sing always packs a feast, so we shouldn't lack for much of anythin'."

"Just like a picnic in the woods. It sounds delightful."

Joe looked at her like she was a little crazy and then disappeared into the trees.

Rosey watched the boy go, knowing full well he was too sick to be traipsing about them alone looking for firewood. She'd wait an appropriate amount of time and if he didn't return, find some excuse to go looking for him.

Like his father, Little Joe Cartwright had a dignity about him. One had to honor that. He would grow into a fine young man one day.

As Rosey reached into the wagon and began to draw the blankets out, she considered what Joe had said about his pa being smitten with her. She felt the same way. Ben Cartwright was a wonderful man. He would make any woman the most attentive and loving husband. There was a part of her that yearned to throw all caution aside and to rush into his arms.

But then, there was Rory.

She had no idea how her son would react to finding out that she was his mother. If he accepted her, she felt her attention would have to be on him, at least for the foreseeable future while they rebuilt the relationship they'd once had.

If her son rejected her – and there was always that chance – it would devastate her, but it would free her to return Ben's affection. To bring him happiness. To love him.

Perhaps to marry him.

She wondered – was it possible to have both?

Turning back in the direction they had come, she thought of Ben's other sons who were willingly risking their lives to bring Finch Webb to justice. _Her_ son was with them. She knew Rory had a personal score to settle with the outlaw, as did the Cartwrights. She prayed that need would not propel them all into danger. She and her son had only just found one another.

God could not be so cruel as to part them again.

Rosey shook off her unease. Between the two Cartwrights, her son, and his adopted brother, Monty, there were four capable men going after Finch. There was also the posse from Harriman, as well as Sheriff Olin and his men. With any luck, the man she had once known as Sten would be in custody before dawn and headed to prison soon after.

The older woman wrapped her arms around her torso and shivered as a quote by Benjamin Franklin came to mind.

' _Diligence is the mother of good luck._ '

With that thought, she began to search the back of the wagon for a gun.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hop Sing's journey begin at ten in morning. He and Mistah Ben travel together for near eight hours always pushing, never resting, only stopping to feed and water the horses and themselves. It not enough. Much rest is needed.

Hop Sing worried about his friend.

This man he knew over twelve years now, he a tiger. Hop Sing watch Mistah Ben drive himself like he drive cattle, long and hard. Always something need to be done. Always obligation to fulfill; something to see through. Ben Cartwright not think of self when other one in need.

Especially when other one – or other _three_ – are sons.

Hop Sing sigh as he check coffee. He anxious for it to boil. Sun had set in the west, falling down behind purple snow-capped mountains, casting its last dying breath over a land very cold for June. While busy, he keep one eye on his beloved rancher. Ben Cartwright have no more business on road than number three son. Both sick. Both getting sicker. He learn long ago from same rancher that two wrongs do not make one right.

Why Mistah Ben not take his own advice?

Because he tiger. That why. Number three son tiger too.

Tiger father cannot beget lamb son.

Seeing coffee boiling, Hop Sing fill tin cup with dark liquid and take over to friend where he sit propped against the wagon wheel. Beloved rancher make loud noise when he cover him with blankets and tuck him in like small baby. When he complain, Hop Sing remind him.

"Only a fool tests the depths of the water with both feet."

Hop Sing very happy then. Mistah Ben smile at him, forgetting for a moment why he afraid.

As he took steaming cup, the tired rancher blow out air and turn his lips up in a half-smile. "Thank you, Hop Sing. What did I do to deserve you?"

"Mistah Ben looks for fish on trees," he responded curtly. "Hop Sing unworthy of such a question."

Mistah Ben finish smile as he take a sip and then look at him over rim of the cup. "I remember you telling Joseph once that butterflies can't see their wings. They can't see how beautiful they are while everyone else can."

Hop Sing remember another expression, one Mistah Adam fond of. _'Love is like a butterfly, hold it too tight, it will crush. Hold it too loose, it will fly.'_

"Mistah Ben bad man," he said softly, his brow furrowing.

The rancher's dark eyebrows peaked. "Oh?"

"You speak foolishment!" He blinked and sniffed. "How Hop Sing fix supper with tears in eyes? Cannot see, cook food wrong! Put potato in pie and berries in stew!" He wagged a finger at the man he worked for. "You no eat, get skinny as number three son!

He know foolishment too. Sadness in eyes again.

Foolishment to mention.

Mistah Ben no longer see Hop Sing. See in distance sick boy.

"I pray Joseph is all right. That boy! He just doesn't know his limits," tiger growled. "If he gets it in his head that he's right, there's nothing can stand in his way even when his own health is at...risk..."

Hop sing smiling. "Mistah Ben pot call kettle black."

The rancher huffed, and then laughed. "I guess I am at that."

"Mistah Ben not worry about number three son. Mistahs Adam and Hoss not take eyes off Little Joe. Make sure boy okay." He hesitated and then added with another jab of his finger, "Sons want you to worry about _you!"_

"I'm all right, Hop Sing." His friend shift and wince. "I'm tired, but I'll be all right. My stitches are intact."

Before Mistah Ben can stop him, Hop sing place a hand on his forehead. "You no have fever. You rest, like you want Little Joe to rest, you be all right. It not come back."

The older man looked into the trees. "Only for an hour or so, Hop Sing. No more. I have a sense that we need to be on our way as soon as we can."

"Travel in dark?"

Mistah Ben look at him, hope and fear mixed with terror in his black eyes. "Yes."

He thought a moment; then nodded. "You sleep while Hop Sing cooks."

His employer held his gaze. "Only if I have your solemn word, sworn upon the memory of your ancestors, that you will wake me up when the food is ready."

"Like little boy, cross heart with fingers," he replied, doing so.

"And what about the fingers behind your back? Are they crossed too?" Ben snorted. "I have experience with Joseph, you know."

Hop Sing knew Mistah Ben pulling leg. He held his hand up and splayed the fingers out. "Credit weighs more than gold."

"Not more than the gold in your heart, old friend," Mistah Ben replied.

Hop Sing sigh.

He hope his old friend like berry stew.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"What do you think?"

Adam Cartwright glanced at Monty Webb. The early morning light struck the cowboy where he knelt on the ground pointing to a set of footprints he'd just found. They'd been following Finch Webb's trail for a good many hours now. Monty knew what to look for, which helped immensely. There were a couple of abnormalities to the shoes of the horse Finch was riding. They'd spotted the prints outside of the bank and had followed what turned out to be a false trail for about half the day before turning around and heading back toward Virginia City. Before they left Harriman, he'd checked in again on the posse the deputy had raised and was delighted to find out they were heading in the opposite direction.

He had no time for amateurs and there was no time to lose.

"I make those a woman's prints," Monty said as he rose and dusted off his knees. "She's taller than some, I'd guess. Got a lightweight fellow traveling with her."

It had to be Rosey and Greg. She and her son had escaped from captivity shortly after the robbery went down. If the tracks _were_ Rosey's, they were headed for the Ponderosa. It was obvious, whoever it was, that they were being pursued. They'd kept to the side of the road and not traveled on it. Only the grace of God and nature's call had revealed the footprints to them.

The trouble was, though Finch Webb had headed away from Harriman to begin with – in the direction the posse had taken – they'd realized quickly enough that he'd doubled back and taken the Virginia City road. Adam glanced at the ground. Webb's prints over rode both Rosey's and Greg's, so he'd come after them. The outlaw was possessed. He meant to have her.

He was also a killer and that put Hoss and Little Joe in the line of fire.

"You know Finch better than me, obviously," Adam said as Monty rose to his feet. "I would have thought avarice his chief vice, but it looks like one woman is more important to him than escaping with the bank money, otherwise he would be heading for Mexico."

"Or, knowing my brother, San Francisco to waste it all on fast women and expensive liquor." Monty spat on the ground, expressing his disgust. "Trouble with Finch is, he can't lose. Most of what he does is set himself up a challenge and then do whatever it takes to come out the winner. Rosey bested him. So did your little brother. Sorry to say, that's all that matters now."

And _that_ was what he was afraid of.

"He's on horseback and moving fairly fast. How far ahead of us do you think he is?" Adam asked.

"One, maybe two hours."

"And Rosey and her son?

Monty squatted to look again. When he looked up, it wasn't with a smile.

"About the same."

Great. Just...great.

"At least Joe and Hoss should be at the rock formation. That puts them closer to home."

"If they stayed there," Monty said as he rose again and headed for his horse. "Ain't neither one of those younger brothers of yours too good at followin' rules from what I seen." The lanky blond paused. He looked over his horse's back in the direction of the house. "Someone's comin', you hear it?"

He did. "Moving slowly, like they're looking for something."

Monty's smile was grim. "Or _someone_."

With a nod, Adam took hold of Sport's reins and led him off of the road and into the shadows of the trees while Monty did the same with his mount.

Then they waited. It took two, maybe three minutes before they spotted who it was.

"It's Hoss," the black-haired man said.

"And Greg," Monty added. "They're both on horseback!"

Adam drew a breath and held it as his mind whirled with possibilities. He was waiting for the wagon with Little Joe.

It never came.

"Hoss! Yo! Hoss!" Adam called as he showed himself.

Chubb snorted as his brother reined him in. A second later the big teen was dismounted and at his side. Adam knew what was coming and braced himself.

"If you ain't a sight for sore eyes!" Hoss exclaimed, grabbing him and pulling him into a bear hug. "We was on our way to Harriman to find you."

Adam's gaze went to Greg. He nodded in his direction.

Hoss looked and then turned back. Monty had moved over to the young man and they were talking. "Joe and I was on our way in the wagon when we ran into Miss Rosey and Rory there. Seems they'd escaped from Finch Webb and was headed to the Ponderosa."

"Rory?"

The big man nodded. "Remembers his name, but he don't know about him and Miss Rosey yet. She wanted to wait to tell him 'til things, well, calmed down. You know?"

Which at the rate things were going might be by the time Greg was thirty.

"Where's Joe?"

His brother's grin faded. "He ain't doing so good, Adam. The fever's back. Miss Rosey cooked up a scheme to get him to take her back to the ranch house. She means to keep him there."

"So Little Joe is with Rosey? _Just_ Joe?"

Hoss scowled. "Yeah. I figured him and her could make it back to the house all on their lonesomes. After all, she was a scout and that gal sure can sure take care of herself."

"Under ordinary circumstances," Adam sighed.

"What about it ain't ordinary?"

Adam stared at the road. The hooves of Hoss and Greg...er...Rory's horses would have wiped out most of Finch's tracks, but that didn't matter. They knew where he was going.

"After the robbery in Harriman, Finch doubled back. He's on the road to the Ponderosa, Hoss." Adam took a step forward. "He and his men are somewhere between us and Rosey and Joe."

"You mean that outlaw didn't light out for Mexico?"

"The posse from Harriman is headed that way, but no. Monty knows his horse's hoof prints. Finch is headed to the ranch."

Hoss took his hat off and slapped it against his thigh. "Damn."

Adam mirrored his brother's frustration as he gazed down the road his little brother had taken.

That one word about summed it up.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rosey had awakened just before dawn. She'd glanced at Little Joe where he lay curled up in a ball with his back to her, decided to leave the boy sleeping, and then risen quietly and gone to relieve herself. Upon her return she'd performed a few chores, rekindling the fire and placing a fresh pot of coffee on it, and then returned to wake her charming chaperone. Tired as he was, Joe had fallen asleep instantly and she was the one who had sat up half the night, rifle in hand. Finally, as the moon edged down and the first fingers of light rose, she'd allowed herself a few hours sleep. She hadn't shown the rifle to Little Joe. She knew he would have insisted on keeping watch and the child needed his rest.

Ben had told her that his youngest was notoriously hard to awaken. The tricks Joe's brothers pulled to get him on the move were legendary. Patrick had always said that sleep was God's healer. Perhaps Little Joe needed more because he experienced everything more deeply. In the time she had come to know the Cartwrights, she had seen Ben's youngest go from despair to delight in a matter of seconds. Rosey smiled as she looked at the sleeping boy. There was one thing anyone would have to admit. Though he could be contrary and obstinate, Little Joe's laugh was a gift from on high and brought joy to all who heard it.

Rosey ran a hand across her eyes as she fought back fatigue. Sadly, she hadn't heard it much on this trip. Joe was pushing himself mercilessly. He was determined, first of all, to get her to safety and secondly, to prove he was a man.

She smiled as she looked at his tousled head, peeking out from beneath the blanket. He wasn't yet, but he was well on his way.

Ducking under the wagon, Rosey knelt and placed a hand on Joe's shoulder. Alarm bells went off as she did. He was hot.

 _Very_ hot.

She shook him gently. "Little Joe? It's time to wake up."

Joe murmured and curled into himself more.

Arranging her skirts, she sat beside him. This time she reached out to brush the curls from his forehead and was alarmed to find his skin hot but fairly dry. Her years attending Pat with his patients made her think of infection. The only cause she could think of was the possibility of a bone infection from his broken rib. She prayed to God that a broken end of it had not shifted and torn into something.

Thinking back to what Joe had told her earlier, she shook the boy again and using a stern tone said, "Joseph! Wake up. Look at me. Joseph!"

She was rewarded with a mumble.

"Dnnn wnnaa. G'way."

Relief shook her. He was conscious. That was one in their favor. Taking hold of the boy's arm, she rocked him toward her. "Joe, please. Open your eyes and look at me."

With a groan, he did as she asked. Those wide green eyes opened and fastened on her. Joe looked puzzled for a moment, and then the most beautiful smile broke over his young face.

"Mama?"

Pat would have said, stop, draw a breath, and reevaluate before you panic. He might not be delirious. Joe simply might not be awake.

"Little Joe, can you sit up?" As he struggled to comply, she placed a hand on each side of his torso. "Here, let me help you."

Apparently she took hold of him in the wrong place. Ben's youngest gasped and his eyes shot wide open as his hands flew out to grip her upper arms.

He was definitely awake now.

She cupped Joe's face in her hand. "Do you know who I am? Joseph, answer me!"

Pain drew deep gasps from him. "Rosey..?"

"Yes. Rosey. Thank God." The older woman sucked in a breath and let it out slowly to steady herself. "Can you tell me what hurts?"

A pained smile curled his lips. "...everything...?"

"I'll go get you some water," she said and made to rise.

He pulled her back. "I'm...all right. Got to...get you home. Somewhere...safe."

Her heart ached for him. He was being so brave.

"I'm fine, Joe. It's _you_ we need to worry about. We have to get that fever down."

The boy shook his head. "I promised...Hoss." He licked his lips. "Adam." He pulled away from her then and struggled to rise. "Pa... Got to get you to...Pa."

"So you're still alive. Eh, boy?" a man asked out of the blue, his tone callous.

Rosey stiffened. She knew that voice. It had haunted her nightmares for twelve years. She pivoted to look and found the man she had known as Sten – the man whose real name was Finch Webb – and his right hand man Abel Simms gazing down at them.

Finch spat. A sneer curled his cruel lips.

"We'll just have to see what we can do about remedying that, now won't we?"


	15. Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

"You leave the boy alone!" Rosey protested. She'd raised up from under the wagon and positioned herself between Finch and Little Joe. Her eyes longingly sought the rifle she had left propped near the driver's seat. It was, sadly, out of reach.

Finch swaggered over to her, his eyes on the rifle as well. Then, slowly, they came back to her and passed over her to go to Joe where he lay under the wagon, his eyes open wide and bright with fever.

"Don't look like I need do much," the outlaw sneered. "Seems to me he ain't got too much time as it is."

Joe was struggling to toss his covers over and get up – to come to her rescue.

"You stay where you are, boy," Finch ordered, his words accompanied by an ominous 'click' as the outlaw aimed his gun.

Rosey glanced at Joe and shook her head. ' _Joseph, no,'_ she mouthed. _'Lay back down.'_

Joe's eyes met hers. She saw anything _but_ resignation in them. Still, he did as he was told.

For now.

"Finch, why?" she asked as she turned back. "You can't _possibly_ want me. Do you just want to hurt me? Is that it?"

He came close and took her jaw between his fingers. " _Why_ can't I want you?"

Her answer might be her death sentence, but she didn't care. "Because I _hate_ you. I hate you for killing my husband and for taking twelve years of my son's life from me!" She drew a breath. "And Rory hates you too!"

Finch's eyes were very pale. Some might have called them gray, but they were actually lavender in tone. And they were cold. Cold as the heart of a winter storm.

"Nothin' like beddin' a she-cat and especially one protectin' her young." Finch said as he tightened his grip until it hurt. "Greg ain't goin' nowhere. I got Greg, so I got _you_."

"You just have to win," she breathed. "That's it? Isn't it?"

His lips curled with a dark pleasure. "Maybe. If you got it right, I'm just about there." He used the gun's barrel to point to where Joe lay under the wagon, breathing heavily. "That one's done for. I got you. Greg will follow. I'd call that winnin'."

"Ben Cartwright's still alive," she declared, though she knew she shouldn't. "He won't rest until you're brought to justice!"

"You better hope that rancher stays on that Ponderosa of his." The evil man snorted. "Can't think of much would satisfy me more than puttin' another bullet in him, deliberate-like this time. Now, come on."

Finch took her by the arm and started to pull her away from the wagon. She noticed Simms did not move, but was staring at Joseph where he lay helpless in a nest of tangled blankets.

"What about Joe?" she demanded.

Her captor glanced over his shoulder at his cohort. "I was gonna have Simms put the little animal out of his misery."

Rosey's spine went stiff. "If you do, I will fight you every inch of the way, Finch. I will scream so they can hear me in Eagle Station if you harm that boy!"

"Always the mama," he said, his tone sarcastic. After a second, he nodded. "Come on, Simms. We'll let the wolves have him."

As she was led away, Rosey tossed one last longing look at Little Joe.

The outlaw was wrong.

The wolves had _her._

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"How Mistah Ben feel? Feel A-okay?"

It was probably the tenth time his friend had asked him that in ten minutes. "Yes, Hop Sing," Ben grunted. "I feel fine."

"Not look fine. Look like wet flour."

"Thank you," he snorted.

"Hop Sing not here make Mistah Ben feel good about self. Hop Sing here to make sure Mistah Ben all right." His cook shook his head. "You just like Little Joe. Never know if you speak truth!"

Ben was affronted. "I always speak the truth."

"About cattle, about timber, about prices and people, always speak truth. Tell lies about self!"

The rancher hid his smile as he glanced over at Hop Sing, who was seated on the board beside him. The man from China had grudgingly handed the reins over to him and let him drive. He had assured him he would do nothing to cause his stitches to burst or make anything worse. They were traveling in the dark and their pace was slow. Fortunately, it was another crisp cool May night and the moon was high and bright. It would have been a pleasant ride if it were not for the fact that he had three sons, as well as several friends, in danger from a madman.

"What lies have I told about myself?" Ben asked.

"Mistah Ben all right. Mistah Ben not tired. Mistah Ben's side not feel like chicken's when Hop Sing sew up after adding stuffing!"

The rancher laughed out loud. One hand went to his side. "Stop it!" he pleaded. "You're the one making it hurt!"

The man from China looked stricken.

Ben was still chuckling. "Forgive me, old friend. It's just..." He stopped. Hop Sing wasn't looking at him. He was looking straight ahead and pointing.

He saw it, abandoned in the moonlight.

Their wagon.

"Whoa!" Ben reined in the team. Everything that was in him wanted to hop from the seat and run to the vehicle, but he restrained himself and made a smooth and slow exit instead.

Then he ran.

Hop Sing was already there. He was on the ground under it where a twisted pile of blankets lay abandoned.

"Someone sleep here. Not long ago. Blankets still warm."

Ben tried to work out in his mind what had happened. The boys had left the Ponderosa with their mounts in tow. Joseph had been unwell, and so they had taken the wagon to transport him. Now, here it was, abandoned. Where were they? Certainly Joseph couldn't be riding.

Could he?

Ben knelt carefully and began to examine the ground. The first thing he saw puzzled him even more.

A woman's footprints.

"Hop Sing!"

The man from China was at his side in a moment. He had something in his hands. "Found Little Joe's coat under wagon," he said.

Ben took it and examined it. There was no blood, which was a hopeful sign. Clutching the garment like a lifeline, the rancher stood up and looked around. Unless Little Joe had gone off without his coat, he had to be somewhere nearby.

"Little Joe! Joseph!" he called, heedless of the danger of exposing himself. "Joseph?!"

Hop Sing had risen as well. They stood still, waiting as the stars traveled silently above them and the earth revolved beneath their feet.

"There! You hear that?" his friend asked.

He hadn't. "No. What did you hear?"

Hop Sing shook his head. "Not sure. Sound like...there!"

He'd heard it that time. The sound cut through to his soul.

" _Pa?"_

Dropping the coat, Ben sped off into the woods in the general direction of the voice. "Joseph? Son? Yes, it's Pa. Little Joe, call out! Let me know where you are, boy!"

"Pa...?"

He stopped. It had come from his right.

"Joseph?"

"Pa...here. I'm...here..."

There was a thicket, and past it a large tree surrounded by smaller ones. The moonlight streamed through the opening between them, casting deep shadows, masking more than illuminating the land beneath the giant cottonwood. As he broke through the underbrush, Ben Cartwright grunted with relief and then drew in a sharp breath of anguish.

Little Joe was there. His son was alive.

He was also _very_ sick.

Ben crossed the distance between them in two heartbeats and dropped at the boy's side. Reaching out he took Joe's tousled head in his hand, working his fingers into the dirt and sweat-soaked curls.

"Joseph. It's all right, son. I'm here."

His son was looking at him, but not _seeing_ him. Fever ran through the boy like a wildfire in a dry forest. He could see it in Joe's eyes. Feel it radiating through him, even in his hair.

Little Joe's hand feebly reached for his. "Pa... I tried... Really, I...did." The boy was breathing hard and fast. "I couldn't...couldn't..." Joe's eyes closed for a second and then shot open. His son's hand grasped his arm. "He got her! Finch...he...got Rosey!"

Ben glanced up at Hop Sing who stood beside him. There were tears in his friend's eyes too. Joseph. Dear obstinate, stubborn, reckless – and caring Joseph was more worried about a woman who only the year before had been a total stranger to him than he was about himself.

"I'll find her, Joseph. I promise." Ben reached forward and gathered his son into his arms. Joseph's fingers clawed his shirt, as if he could not enter than embrace fast enough. The rancher placed a hand on the back of his son's head and looked up at Hop Sing. "Help me get him back to the wa– "

A woman's scream cut off what he had been about to say.

Dear Lord! Could that be Rosey?

Was Finch Webb still so close?

"Bad man still here," Hop Sing stated pithily.

Ben hesitated. Joseph needed him. So did Rosey.

What did he do?

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo  
Hoss brought his horse up short, nearly causing the animal to stumble. "You hear that brother?"

Adam looked grim as he nodded. "A woman's scream."

The big teen tossed a look at the two men who rode at their side. Rory had risen up in his stirrups.

"Sounds like she might be a mile away. Maybe more," Monty added.

It was night and it was cold, so it was possible the sound had carried that far. The four of them remained where they were, poised like watchmen on a tower waiting for a signal.

It never came.

"What are we waiting for? We have to go!" Rory proclaimed, his anger evident in his tone. "Finch is hurting her!"

"There are things we have to consider," Adam said in a cool even tone. "We can't just rush in like –"

"Like what? Like a frightened kid?" Rory's jaw was tight. His eyes dangerously bright. "Well, that what I am! A frightened kid even _more_ frightened for his ma!"

Hoss exchanged a startled look with his brother. "You know?"

Monty shrugged. "He had it mostly figured out. I just confirmed it."

Rory had started to urge his mount forward. Adam caught the reins in his hand. "Stop. Rory, stop and think! You may put Rosey in _more_ danger by rushing in. Or get yourself killed. Is that what you want? Is that what _Rosey_ would want?"

The young man's rage deflated. "God..." he said. "God. What do I do?"

Adam's look was hard. "There was only one scream. That means one of two things. Either it's an attempt to get us to do just what you were planning on doing – rushing in pell-mell – or...or your mother's already dead."

It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but Hoss was pretty sure all the color drained from Rory's face.

His wasn't much better.

"What about Little Joe?" he asked his brother. He knew right well a boy's scream, especially his baby brother's, could sound just like a woman's.

Adam's lips were pursed. He shook his head.

"We'll find out when we get there," he said. "Now, what we need is a plan."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben left Joseph behind with the man he trusted most with the welfare of his sons after himself. He'd carried the boy, cradled against his chest, back to the wagon and placed him in the nest of blankets under it. Little Joe was in and out of his head, not quite unconscious, but obviously not far from it. He couldn't imagine what had caused the fever to return with such ferocity. Paul had mentioned a vague threat of infection caused by bone fever, but had dismissed it as he was certain Little Joe's broken rib had neither punctured the skin nor splintered. Perhaps the movement of the wagon – or something Joe himself had done against his brothers wishes – had caused it. Whatever it was, they needed to get the boy home and get him there quickly. Unfortunately, it was too late for Hop Sing to start back tonight. They would have to wait until morning.

God willing it would all be over by then.

His own injury was not without its worries. Ben felt the strain on the doctor's stitches as he worked his way through the trees toward the sound of the scream. He had no doubt that Finch Webb was waiting for him. He must have had someone on the lookout who had seen them arrive. Finch was a typical small, petty man whose only thought was for himself. He'd been bested by a woman and a boy and he was not going to let that stand.

Moving with caution, Ben kept his ears tuned to the land before him. He could hear men speaking in low voices. He had no idea how many outlaws Webb had with him, but it didn't matter. He knew their cowardly kind. Once the head was cut off, the rest of the snake would slither away and curl up somewhere to die. He didn't care about them. Let the posse take them.

He wanted Finch Webb.

To that end, Ben Cartwright halted where he was and called out in a loud voice. "Finch, I know you're there. I'm coming in."

A cold laugh traveled the cold wind to him.

"Come ahead."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"No! Number three son get back under wagon! Boy stay put! Boy hurt self and father if he not do as father say!"

Little Joe tiger son. He not listen.

"Hop Sing, I...can't!" Number three son's fevered hands press against him. "Finch will...kill him! I gotta...go...help...Pa!"

"You want help pa, you stay here!"

God make small animals with big eyes that reveal soul so no man harm them. God make young boy no less so.

"Hop Sing, please..."

He shook his head.

Knew it was coming. Anger next.

"You let..me go!" Little Joe's fingers become fists. Strike Hop Sing's chest like tail of angry dragon. "You..get out of...my way!"

Hop Sing remain still, like Great Wall in China. "No."

Number three son not happy. Jaw clench. Nostrils flare. Tears stream down boy's flushed cheeks.

"You...can't keep me...here! That's... _my_ Pa! You got no right!" Little Joe look him in eye. "What...if you had...stopped me before when I fought...with Finch.

"Pa'd be _dead!_ "

Honorable ancestors speak to him. Their voice louder than old friend's.

With a nod, he agree.

"But boy not go alone. Hop Sing go with him."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Throw your gun away, Cartwright," Finch Webb ordered as he emerged from the trees.

With a glance at Rosey who lay sobbing on the ground beside Abel Simms, he did as he was told.

"If you've hurt her..." Ben growled.

"You'll do what? I'd cut you down where you stand before you even _thought_ to move."

He was right. In truth the rancher had no idea how he could possibly keep the man from carrying out his threat. He was counting – as he always did – on Providence to take a hand in the outcome.

"You could but you haven't, and I think that says a lot about the kind of man you are."

"What?" he scoffed. "Big-hearted? Charitable?"

"No." Ben inched toward him. "A man who likes to take his revenge nice and slow."

"Just kill him," Simms said.

"Shut up!" the outlaw snarled. "How's that boy of yours, Cartwright? You find him where I left him."

"I found him."

"Still breathin'?"

Ben thought a moment. If Finch thought Joseph was dead, he wouldn't go after him. The rancher cast his face accordingly – anger and grief mixed with rage.

"No."

He heard Rosey gasp.

Ben's eyes remained locked on Finch. He'd apologize later.

He prayed he'd _need_ to apologize later.

"No use in grievin', Cartwright," Finch Webb said as Rosey's sobs increased. "You'll be seein' your boy soon enough. Tie him up, Simms!"

There was a pause. "For God's sake, Finch, just kill him!" Abel argued. "I'm gettin' tired of all your games –"

"And I'm tired of you!" Without missing a beat Finch pivoted and shot the other man, turning his attention away for a split-second.

Ben saw his chance.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam exchanged a look with his middle brother. They'd heard a woman sobbing and now, a shot. Out of an abundance of caution they had left their mounts behind and were on foot, closing in, but he feared not fast enough. He and Hoss were coming in from the west and Monty and Rory from the east. He hoped Rosey's son wouldn't try anything rash. At least the man who'd been his older brother for the last twelve years was with him, and Monty had a good head on his shoulders.

Still, younger brothers _were_ younger brothers.

Through the trees he could see movement. Two men were struggling. Squaring off, striking, and then backing away and beginning again like two rams fighting for dominance.

Hoss' hand caught his arm. One of them had fallen and, for a second, was plainly visible through the trees.

"Adam! That's Pa!"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hop Sing not able to keep up. Little Joe sick so he sure he can, but sadly, had been wrong. Youngest son of Mistah Ben a hundred feet in front of him. He shove branches aside and run like deer as if there was no bad man on the other side of trees waiting to kill him.

He remember what father tell him when _he_ was young man. _'Dragon teaches you that if man want to climb high, he must do it against the wind.'_

"Little Joe!" Hop Sing shout. "You stop! Little Joe!"

Boy's face turn toward him. In it he see determination. Boy will die if it means his father will live. Hop Sing understand though he not like what he sees.

Little Joe have debt to pay.

Mistah Adam has a phrase he likes. Come also from Shakespeare Sing.

'Past that which is desperate.'

Hop Sing now know meaning.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben was on his knees. Pain seared his side. Some of the stitches that Paul had taken to close his wound were holding, but others had broken open and he knew he was bleeding. Fortunately whatever men had traveled with Finch – other than Simms, who had fallen silent and was most likely dead – seemed to have cut and run. It was just the two of them. Of course, he was older and wounded and Finch Webb was not only younger and hale, but determined as Hell to kill him.

Ben's smile was bleak.

That made the odds about even.

He'd landed a good blow the last time, driving the villain to his knees where he remained, one hand to the ground, panting hard. Finch's gun was a good five yards away – too far for either of them to make a grab for it. Though he was weakening, he felt he had a chance so long as they went to hand to hand.

It was then Ben saw the glint of moonlight on the knife.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe halted, breathing hard, at the edge of the small clearing that contained the bad man who had attacked his home, stolen Miss Rosey, and shot his Pa. He glanced back over his shoulder. He was only a minute or so ahead of Hop Sing who was sure to tackle him and keep him from doing what he needed to do. Pa was hurting. He was half-standing and half-bowed over, his hand to his side. There was red slippin' through his fingers, so he was bleeding again.

They were out of time.

Joe glanced from side to side, checking to see if Finch had any other men with him, and the looked back toward his pa. It was then he saw it.

Finch Webb had a knife!

Heedless of his own safety, Joe bolted out of the leaves and ran straight for his father.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Hold it!" Adam knocked Hoss' hand aside. His brother had been about to take a shot in spite of the fact that there was no clear chance to do so when the black-haired man saw a slender curly-headed figure come barreling out of the trees like an avenging angel. Adam held his breath as their father turned slightly, allowing Webb an opening to use the knife he was holding. But then Joe was on Pa and Pa was falling.

"Now!" he shouted.

Gunfire erupted from both sides of the clearing as he and Hoss and Monty and Rory fired their weapons. Finch Webb was caught in the crossfire. His body went stiff, seemed to lift up, and then crumpled and lay still.

It was over.

Adam crumpled too – until Hoss started running.

And then he ran too.


	16. Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

Ben opened his eyes to find his youngest son's lean frame splayed across his own fallen form. Terror gripped him. The last thing he remembered had been hearing a series of shots. Heedless of any danger – and in spite of the pain – he sat up and rolled Joseph's silent form over and ran his hands the length of the boy's fevered body looking for a wound.

He was stunned when he didn't find one.

A second later someone dropped into the grass beside him. Someone else as did as well on his other side. One of those someones started shaking his shoulder and was speaking words. Hands reached out. Another one of those someones tried to take Joseph from him.

Heaven itself could not have loosened his grip.

There were more words. _Urgent_ words. Finally, a few of them began to penetrate. "Pa... Pa...go. Pa, we... to help Joe."

Help.

Joe?

The older man blinked and attempted to make the world come into focus. A face loomed, close to his. A beloved face. Worried. Worse.

Terrified.

"Adam?"

"Pa, you're hurt," his oldest said. "Little Joe is too. I need to take him."

"He's not...shot." It was a statement. Why did it sound like a question?

"No, thank God, Pa, he's not shot. But he's really sick. I need to get him to the wagon."

When he made no move to comply, a second voice added. "Pa, you jut let me take little brother. You know I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to him."

Hoss. That was Hoss.

He should have known.

Still his fingers would not release the treasure they held. He could almost have believed he was dead and the arms that wrapped his child so tightly were frozen in eternity. He glanced down at the boy, so pale, so still...

"Little Joe?" He cleared his throat. "Is he...?"

He heard the smile in the big man's voice. It was tight but there.

"Little brother's a corker, Pa. He's hangin' on. But we need to get Joe's coat and get him in it and then wrap some blankets 'round him. He's shiverin' awful hard."

Was he? How had he not noticed?

Then Ben realized _he_ was shivering too.

With one last look at his sweet son, who had once again saved his life – perhaps at the expense of his own – Ben surrendered Little Joe to his brother and watched Hoss carry him away to where Hop Sing was waiting by the wagon. As he did, the rancher's vision was blocked by the form of his oldest boy.

"Pa, you're bleeding. We need to see to your wounds."

Wounds? He wasn't shot. Was he?

No.

Not _this_ time.

"What...?" he asked.

Adam sighed. He slipped his hat back on his head and knelt beside him. "All right. I'll tell you what happened. _Then_ will you let us tend your wounds?"

Ben nodded. Vaguely.

"Monty and I met up with Hoss and Rory. We were leaving Harriman on Finch's trail and they were coming to look for us. Unfortunately, Little Joe and Rosey were headed back to the Ponderosa and Finch got in-between. He caught up to them and left Joe for dead. We think he was leaving when he realized you were in the area and decided to turn back and make sure you were dead too."

Dead? But they'd told him...

"Joseph? He's not –"

"No, Pa. Hoss was telling the truth. Little Joe's alive." Adam's worried look added something – maybe the fact that he was concerned that Joe might _not_ stay that way. "Pa, your side's bleeding badly. Come on. Let's get you over to where Joe is so I can take a look."

He shook his head and winced. A hand went to it and came away bloody.

"Yeah, you've got a wound there too. You must have hit your head on a rock when you fell. That's why you're not thinking clearly."

"Who says I'm not...thinking clearly?" he growled, coming back a bit.

Adam grinned. "Well, let's just say you're a little... _muddled_ then, shall we?"

"Ben?"

The older man looked up at her voice. Rosey was filthy. Her hair was a shambles and her dress in tatters, exposing the underpinnings beneath, but she was beautiful. Radiant in fact. While she held one hand out to him, her other was locked firmly in her son's. They'd made it. They'd both made it.

They'd _all_ made it.

Ben closed his eyes and let fatigue and relief was over him.

"Thank you," he whispered and then knew no more.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam stared at his brother and father who lay together beneath the wagon they had driven away from their home only the day before. Both were pale as death. Both fighting fevers. Hoss had ridden into Eagle Station to see if he could locate Doctor Martin and bring him out to where they were. The morning light was breaking. A new day had begun. Hopefully Paul was already in his office. They discussed it and decided it would be best not to move either of them. Pa's stitches were broken open and Joe... Well, Heaven only knew what was wrong with Little Joe. They'd managed to get the fever reduced a bit the night before by wrapping him in ice cold blankets soaked in a nearby stream, but that – of course – raised the fear of pneumonia. Adam could swear he heard his younger brother's breath rattling in his chest. But then, it might have been his imagination. Or maybe it was just guilt.

This was _not_ the outcome he had hoped for.

"Mister Adam, come get coffee. Take rest," a soft voice said from behind him. "You not help father or brother make self sick."

He recognized the words. It was the Cartwright litany.

"I'm fine, Hop Sing. I'll rest when Hoss gets back with the doctor."

"Number two son not get back for some time. You rest now." There was a pause. "Mister Adam not to blame. Anyone to blame, it Hop Sing."

The pain in that voice caused him to forget his own. Adam pivoted on his heel. "What?"

There were tears in the eyes of the man from China. "Mister Ben say keep Little Joe at wagon. Hop Sing disobey." He paused and then straightened up as if ready to take his punishment. "Hop Sing let boy go to father."

"You..." Adam paused. "Let me get this straight, you _let_ Joe go?"

Hop Sing cringed as if struck. "Yes," he said in a small voice.

"Might I ask what prompted that act of dubious intelligence?" he asked sharply, and then instantly regretted it. Adam ran a hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry, Hop Sing. I'm just tired. I'm sure you had a reason." He paused and then added with a little smile, "After all I've been in your shoes – _twice_ recently."

Hop Sing's eyes had gone to Little Joe, where he lay so still beside their father. At some point Pa had awakened and reached out to Joe and their hands were still entwined.

"Hop Sing take care of little boy after mother die. He fear father die too. Fear it when five year old. Still fear it now. Little Joe think..." Hop Sing paused. He shook his head. "Little Joe think he shoot father when he fight with Finch Webb for gun. Much guilt. Much sadness."

"We told him – "

"Boy love brothers but not listen to. Still feel guilt."

Adam nodded. That was Joe.

"Go on."

Hop Sing spread his hands wide and kept them level. "Boy need something. Need _ying_ and _yang_ , balance of opposites."

He blew out a puff of air. "Joe needed to _save_ Pa to be able to forgive himself."

The man from China nodded.

Adam looked again at the quiescent pair. Pa had some color and was shifting as if in pain. Joe was still _Very_ still.

Even if it cost him his life.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben cracked one eye open and instantly regretted it as pain tore through his head and side. He stifled a moan and shifted and then had another thing to regret.

"That's what you get for disobeying your doctor's orders," a gruff voice remarked.

He knew it – and the tone.

"I knew I...regretted waking up," he said weakly as he realized he was in his home and in his own bed.

"I should give up on the whole lot of you Cartwrights," Paul Martin sighed as he reached for his wrist to check his heartbeat. "Not one of you knows the meaning of the word 'no'." The doctor chuckled. "Until it comes to telling _me_ 'no', of course."

Ben was struggling for something – a memory. He could feel a fiery hand in his own. A touch that was important. No, _necessary._

"Joseph!"

"Little Joe's in his own bed," Adam remarked as he slipped from where he was leaning against the door jamb and came into the room. His oldest was not often one for tactile touch. The fact that he came over and placed a hand on his arm said quite a bit. "Good to have you back, Pa."

"And Joe will _stay_ in his own bed this time if I have anything to say about it!" Ben noticed Paul was staring down Adam just as much as him. "I almost lost that boy two nights ago. He needs to stay put."

Ben saw Adam wince.

"Almost lost _Joe?"_ he demanded. While he'd been, what, _sleeping?_

His oldest son did not remove his hand. "Joe's fever went real high, Pa. He went into convulsions." Adam's eyes showed the toll surviving that had taken. "It's broken now."

"The rib bone fractured, Ben, due to the boy's stubborn insistence on saving the day – two times!" Paul shook his head. "It started an infection. It was all I could do to get it under control." His tone had been stern, unbending. Relief at the outcome softened it. "Knowing that youngest son of yours, no one could have stopped him. Don't blame yourself, Ben," Paul glanced at Adam, "or anyone else."

"Hop Sing's taking it hard," his son remarked quietly.

Ben's eyes rolled over from Paul to Adam. The older man was right. Though he was still angry about Adam's choices, his son needed forgiveness so he too could heal.

"As I remember, it was _you_ who...decided to take your brother along when you and Hoss...went after Finch." He struggled for breath as his son's face fell. "I was angry. I still...am in some ways...but son...we have to let it go. _Both_ of us." Ben fought for a smile. "We both know...the only way to have kept...your brother home...would have been to hog-tie him." His fingers slid to Adam's and he squeezed. "You were only...trying to protect him."

"And a poor job I did at that," his son muttered.

He squeezed harder. "He's alive, Adam. We're all alive. _That's_ what...matters."

Adam's lips quirked with a smile. "Alive and kicking, actually. That's what I came in to tell Paul. Joe's awake and insisting on seeing Pa."

The physician rolled his eyes. "Here we go again!" Paul thought a moment. "Ben?"

"Yes?"

"Knowing that boy, if I don't grant his request, he'll be crawling on his hands and knees into here within the hour. I would rather _you_ go to Joe than Joe come to you. _If_ you feel up to it – and _only_ for a few moments!"

He was already on the way to pushing his covers aside.

"Whoa!" Paul said, laying a hand on his arm. "I need your promise."

Ben looked up – innocently, he hoped. "Promise?"

"That you will let Adam assist you both there and back, and you will stay _no_ more than five minutes."

"But if Joe sees Adam helping me..."

"For Heaven's sake, Ben, the boy saw you bleeding! He knows you're hurt." Paul crossed his arms. "However, if you would rather I put my foot down and insist you _both_ stay in bed –"

"I promise."

Rarely did Paul Martin smile. He did now and it was triumphant.

"Good. Now, Adam, if you would care to assist the _invalid_."

Hoss was waiting in the hall. His middle boy looked done in. His bright blue eyes were cradled in shadows that had shadows of their own and he looked like he'd lost weight. Still, he was smiling.

Little Joe _must_ be better.

As he took the slow steps along the hall to his youngest's room, Ben asked his oldest, 'How long?"

Adam played dumb. "How long what, Pa?"

"Paul said Joe had reached a crisis the day before yesterday. How long have we been home?"

The boy's eyes flicked to Hoss where he kept pace with them and then back to him. "Five days."

" _Five_ days? Dear Lord!"

"You was right sick, Pa. Just about as sick as Joe," Hoss offered. "We was..." He shook his head. "We were afeared we was gonna lose the both of you."

They had arrived outside Little Joe's door. Ben looked in to see Rosey release Joseph's hand and rise from the chair by the bed. She was wearing a rose-pink dress that set off her dark hair and was the picture of loveliness – a far cry from the exhausted and tatterdemalion woman he remembered from the last time his eyes had been open.

She caught his hand as she came through the door. Her eyes shone with joy. "Ben! It is so good to see you." Her glance went to Paul who lingered close by. "Should he be out of bed?"

The doctor let out an exaggerated sigh. "No. And your point is?"

The older woman laughed as she released his hand. "I'll be downstairs with Rory."

Her eyes met his as she said it, gratitude and more reflecting from them. 'Later', they hinted, and then she was gone.

Ben felt Adam's hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Pa. Let's go see Joe."

"Joseph. It's time to wake up," a stern voice spoke calling Joe back to consciousness. He'd been there for a while, but sleep was too sweet and he had willingly given into it while he waited for Adam to return, nestling back into the covers and relishing the early morning peace and quiet.

"I need to have a talk with you, young man."

Oh. It was _that_ stern voice. He must have overslept again. He was _really_ in trouble this time! _Pa'd_ come to get him out of bed.

"Ssrry," he slurred.

Huh? How come his mouth wasn't working right?

"It's the pain medication," he heard someone say. "He's still under."

Pain medication? For what?

Joe tried to shift his body, to get out of bed like Pa wanted. Pain shot through his side.

Oh, yeah. For _that._

"Ow..."

He heard a laugh. No, a snigger.

Hoss.

 _How's about I give you somethin' to laugh about, middle brother!_ he thought, but all that came out was, "...laugh..."

"I wouldn't try it if I were you, son," a kind but firm voice remarked as he felt cool fingers on his wrist. "Not with that giggle of yours. You'll burst your stitches and Heavens knows I'm running out of thread!"

Another hand touched his forehead. It was cool as well, and familiar. The scent of the man leaning over him was familiar too – a strong musky scent born of years sun and strength. Fingers found his hair, fondling the curls as only one person could or _would_ do.

"Joseph? Son?" A trickle of water touched his lips, moistening them; seeping between them to wet his tongue. "Son, take a sip. Please. Joseph, can you hear me?"

"It's useless, Ben. It's too soon. Let's get you back to bed."

"No..." Joe sucked a drop of water in, licked his lips, and then with a mighty effort forced his eyes open. Focusing on that beloved face, he said, "...stay. Pa. Please. Stay."

His pa's near-black eyes met his. "Welcome back, son."

"Back? Where'd...I go?"

This time it was Adam who snickered. He'd of yelled at him too, but he didn't have the energy.

"You've been...sleeping for a few days," Pa said, his voice shaky.

He knew he'd done something wrong, though he didn't know what, for his father to sound so tired.

"Sorry." There, he said it right that time.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, son. Though I might disagree with your methods," Pa paused and looked up, as if addressing someone else as well, " _all of_ your methods, I can't argue with the outcome."

Outcome. That meant something had happened. Something _important_ from the way Pa sounded.

He wished he could remember what it was.

"That's enough, Ben," he heard the other stern voice say. "Joe knows you're all right now. It's time you got back to bed yourself."

Pa? All right? What had...? What?

Finch.

Finch Webb!

Before anyone could stop him, Joe shot up in the bed like a firecracker had been lit under him. "Pa! He's got a knife! Pa! You gotta... Gotta... Pa..." As quickly as the energy had infused him, it left. Joe fell back to the bed gasping. "Pa...look out..."

It was Adam who spoke. "Joe, Finch Webb is dead. He can't hurt anyone ever again."

He angled his head toward his brother. Hoss was there too. He had a silly smile on his face and was bobbing his own head up and down like an apple in a bucket of water. Finch Webb was...dead? He could hardly believe it, but he _could_ believe something else.

His family wouldn't lie to him.

His fathers fingers tightened on his. "He would have killed me, son. _You_ saved me."

Joe's brows furrowed in concentration. "I...did?"

"You may not remember it, Joe," Doc Martin said, his voice kindly this time. "You were a very sick boy when you rushed out into that clearing. You're quite the hero, son."

Hero?

"Oh, for goodness sake, Doc!" Adam declared, his tone wry. "His head's already big enough with all those curls."

Joe's lips quirked at the ends even as he began to slip back into sleep.

A hero.

That had to be good for a least a few days off from chores.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben was supposed to return to his bed and yet, being a Cartwright, he felt a need to prove Paul Marin correct and quietly insisted he be allowed to go downstairs to the great room instead. The doctor grumbled all the way down the stairs, but he let him – under strict orders that it be for no more than an hour or two. Once he made it to the bottom and into his favorite chair, Ben was glad the physician continued on and exited to return to Eagle Station to check on other patients.

He wasn't sure he would have lasted a _minute_ or two more on his feet.

Soon, though, with more help than he could want or possibly use, he was made comfortable. Ming-hua appeared out of nowhere with a pillow to prop his side as Hop Sing rolled an ottoman over from another part of the room and insisted on placing his feet on it – and then going upstairs to get his slippers. Adam had remained behind to watch Little Joe, but Hoss was there too – getting him a glass of brandy, bringing him his pipe, and generally spoiling him rotten. Finally, about an hour after he had come down, there was a consensus that he was ably taken care of and the three of them disappeared out of the room to go about their various chores.

Leaving him alone with a highly amused and extremely lovely Rosey O'Rourke.

Rosey's son Rory had gone into town with Monty. The pair had a lot to talk over with Sheriff Olin. Neither one had clean hands. Both had been involved in bank robberies and other dubious crimes committed during their time with Finch Webb and there was a reckoning to be had with the law. Adam told him that Deputy Roy had come by while he and Joseph were down to check on things. He said Roy's posse had done little other than to keep Harriman's posse out of trouble – which in the end was a blessing as it had kept them out of _their_ way. The lawman had come back around noon to collect Monty and Rory. Roy told Adam that he was sure the Cartwright's word – along with the pair's actions over the last few days – would go a long way toward lessening any sentence the law might hand down. Ben glanced at the woman across from him. His son said Rory and Rosey's parting had been tearful. Most likely Rory was in jail right now and would stay there until the circuit judge appeared – unless, of course, he could talk Sheriff Olin into putting the pair in his custody under house arrest on the Ponderosa.

He'd sent a letter along with Roy to that point.

Rosey was sitting on the settee. Her dark brown hair was piled up high on her head and she had on a low-slung mauve dress that showed her shoulders. She'd been reading. The book lay open in her lap, unheeded at the moment, as she stared out the window above the dining room table. The image was so like one of his last memories of Marie that it caused him to draw an audible breath.

"A penny for your thoughts," she said softly. "Or do I have to ask?"

No woman liked to be told that she reminded a man of his deceased wife. "I was..."

"Thinking about Joseph's mother."

He scowled. "Now, why would you think that?"

Rosey closed the book and turned toward him. "There are a lot of ghosts in this house. All of them female. But it's Marie's I feel most of all."

"I hope you don't mean that I – "

"No. It's not you, Ben. Or at least, not _only_ you." A little smile curled the ends of her lips. "She must have been quite a woman."

He nodded. "She was." And then added softly, "So are you."

Her eyes were bright. " _Do_ I remind you of her?"

Ben thought a moment. "Honestly? In some ways, yes, but only in that you are beautiful and a strong determined woman. Joseph's mother was..." He chuckled. "Well, like her son, Marie was a handful."

"I love that boy," she said suddenly. Then, surprised by her own ferocity, Rosey laughed. "I love them all, but you can't help loving Little Joe just a _little_ bit more." Her face grew serious. "Mostly, because he needs it so desperately."

Ben nodded his agreement. "Joseph was the most effected by Marie's death, though it was hard on Hoss and Adam as well. Hoss found a purpose in caring for Little Joe. Adam, well," he sighed, "Adam shut down emotionally like his father. He did everything that was needed, but little by little the walls went up." He sighed. "Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever reach the boy."

"He needs a woman's touch. You all do." She rose then and came to sit on the table in front of him. "Ben, I could _be_ that woman."

He read it in her eyes. "But not now," he finished for her.

She reached out and took his hand. "You know I love you. Don't you?"

He did and he told her so.

Rosey clenched his fingers. "And I love those brave strong boys of yours, more than you can know. But..."

"But you have your own son."

Tears entered her eyes. "Thank God, yes."

"And he needs you more than we do."

She bit her lip and then rose and went to look out the window. "I talked to Roy when he came. It's likely Rory will have to do time. Not long, but some time. I need to be there for him. _Close_ to him." When she saw him rising, she waved him back. "Ben, no. Don't get up. I can..."

He was already at her side. Taking her hands, he smiled. "I'm not an invalid, in spite of what Paul Martin would have you think."

She laughed. "I would never dream of applying that word to you, Mister Cartwright. Stubborn, foolish, pig-headed, yes. But 'invalid'? No."

"What are your plans then? Do you mean to abandon the milliners? I know how much the shop means to you."

"Ming-hua will keep it going. I'll be here when I can. Roy said if Rory has to serve time, it will likely be somewhere close. He seemed to think the fact that Rory knows something of medicine might earn him a place in the prison infirmary where he could be of assistance and...well...safer."

He was a handsome young man. Even a year in one of those places would be hard on him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She shrugged. "Rory knows he's done wrong. He wants to make it right."

"So," he smiled, "that means I will still see you from time to time? When you are in town to check on the shop?"

"Hop Sing told me he will keep an eye on Ming-hua while I am away, but yes, I will be back as often as I can." She paused. "And not only for the shop, but to check in on my favorite handsome rancher."

He took her chin in his fingers. "You are a remarkable woman. You know that, don't you, Rosey O'Rourke?"

"I certainly will if you keep telling me as often as you have," she laughed.

Ben looked at her and saw not only an attractive older woman, with the slim figure of a girl and smile of an angel, but a woman who had survived. Like he had survived.

Perhaps there was a future for them together one day.

Ben wrapped his other hand around her waist and drew her in, and then leaned forward and kissed her with passion, taking her breath away.

Occasioning a round of riotous applause from both of his older sons, Hop Sing and Ming-hua, _all_ of which had apparently been eavesdropping.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.


	17. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Ben found Hop Sing sitting in the garden amidst his plants. He'd noticed the last few days that his old friend was avoiding him. June had arrived and was quickly flying. It had been more than a month since he had been shot and life had, as usual, crowded out more important things. Up until the last week his own recovery and that of his son's had been uppermost in his mind. While the older boys took over running the ranch, he'd spent most of his time in Joseph's room fighting battles – keeping the boy in bed when he felt like he was mending, bathing his hot body when the fever returned, helping Little Joe to sit up and cough when the pneumonia he'd developed proved to be more tenacious than a coyote's jaw. When the doctor finally pronounced his son not cured, but on the road to recovery it had left him as exhausted as Joseph. And all the while, throughout the multiple crises, the man from China had come and gone like a ghost, emptying pans, refilling water pitchers, stoking the fire, changing the linens.

Never once had he looked him in the eye.

He'd meant to talk to him about it, of course, but hadn't. And when he'd finally come downstairs this morning, the mountain of paperwork backed up on his desk had taken his immediate attention, and then the needs of the hands, and then... It was only when he sat down after the noon meal to read the paper that it occurred to him that he finally had both the time _and_ the energy to confront his old friend.

Time.

Placing his hand on his side, Ben released a long breath. He'd been given more _time._

The rancher glanced up and whispered a quick 'thanks' to his creator and Father before clearing his throat to let his cook and friend know he was there.

"Hop Sing," he greeted him.

The man from China was pulling weeds. His fingers froze for a moment and then he continued on. "This one not worthy Mistah Cartwright talk to him."

Mister 'Cartwright'. Not Mister _Ben_.

This was serious indeed.

"And why is that?" he asked, angling so he could see his friend better. Hop Sing's face was downcast. The morning sun glistened off the unspent tears in his eyes. He knew, of course, _what_ was wrong. Adam had told him.

Hop Sing sighed. He stopped what he was doing and rocked back on his feet. "Sometimes life as bitter as dragon tears."

"You did nothing wrong."

The man from China turned toward him. "How you say so? Hop Sing not father Little Joe. Make father choice. Boy hurt. So sick." He drew a shuddering breath. "So sick, so long. Hop Sing's fault."

Ben eyed the low bench near the garden. Hop Sing used it for his meditations. He moved over to it and sat down.

"Mistah Cartwright sick too," his cook said softly.

"And I suppose you are going to try to take the blame for that too?" he asked, snapping when he hadn't meant to.

Hop Sing surprised him with a small smile. "Not take blame for Mistah Ben's own foolishment."

Mister 'Ben'.

Ah, now they were getting somewhere.

For a moment, the older man leaned back, soaking in the beauty of the day – the soft breeze, the scent of herbs, the pale light that lay upon the land like a wash of red-gold. The sound of Hop Sing digging again, seeking to uproot what did not belong.

"I had a letter from Rosey. One of the hands brought it in this morning."

The digging halted and then continued. "What Miss Rosey say? She mention Ming-hua?"

Hop Sing had been so busy ministering to him and Joseph he'd had no time to go to town. The man from China thought of Ming-hua like a daughter. As did he.

"Yes, she said Ming-hua is well. Beth Riley had taken her under her wing."

"Mrs. Riley good woman."

"Yes, she is."

"How Miss Rosey's son do?"

Rosey had been relieved. Since Rory had never committed a crime, but only been an accessory, he was sentenced to only two years and the majority of that was to be served in the prison infirmary. True to her word, the older woman had rented a house nearby so she could keep as close a watch on her son as possible. Rory's adopted brother, Monty, was given five years with three off for the aid he had rendered in stopping Finch Webb, so they would be released together.

"She said he's well and actually enjoying what he's doing." Ben smiled at the thought of how God worked all things to the good of those who loved him. "He's thinking of becoming a doctor once he's released."

"Boy has mother. This good."

Yes, it was. Which brought them back to Joseph.

"Adam told me what you said about Joseph – about him being afraid I would die like Marie." He'd known it in a way, though he'd never really put it into words before. "And about why you did what you did," he added quietly.

"Hop Sing wrong to do what he did."

Ben straightened up. "Yes, in some ways you were." He knew his old friend wanted truth, not platitudes. "You countermanded an order I gave concerning one of my sons. If you were simply a member of my staff, I would have every right to let you go and I probably would."

The man from China nodded slowly. "Hop Sing already pack bags. Leave after supper today."

Guilt. Grief. Blame.

Why were they so much easier to find than happiness?

"You weren't listening. I said 'if you were simply a member of my staff'. You're not."

Those black eyes pinned him. "Not member of staff?"

"No." Ben shook his head. The gesture ended in a smile. "You're family, and as such able to make your own judgment calls just like Adam did. _You_ did what you believed was best for Joseph at the time. How can I disagree?"

He was puzzling over that one. "Mistah Ben not mad at Hop Sing?"

"Not in the slightest." How did he put it? "I loved Marie with, and because of all her faults. That woman could have tried the patience of a saint. She had, among other things, an unending desire to prove herself worthy of not only of praise but of love. She'd also known great loss and lived on the edge of the fear that she would lose something precious again. Perhaps...perhaps she kept Joseph a little too close because of the loss of her first child, made him too dependent – too needy."

"Little Joe not dependent," his cook replied, indignant. "He fierce as dragon and strong as tiger."

"Yes, but he is also needy. Like Marie, Joseph needs daily reassurances that he is loved and appreciated and most of all, that he is not alone."

"Boy not like to be alone."

"And he never has been, thanks to you, old friend. When I was otherwise occupied, I always knew you were there. That was a great blessing to me." Ben paused. "It still is."

The man from China thought a moment. Finally he said, "Difficult to catch black cat in dark room. He looked up at him and grinned, "especially when cat not there."

Ben smiled too.

"Now, Mistah Ben go!" Hop Sing declared, threatening with his spade. "Get out of garden! No finish weeding, no have herbs. No have herbs, no have supper! No have supper Little Joe get so thin he blow away like wind!"

Ben laughed and did as he was ordered.

There was no doubt as to who was really in charge of the Ponderosa.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Feeling a bit peckish, Ben entered the house via the kitchen. Once inside, he loaded a plate with some bread and cheese and headed for the great room. Coming as he did from the dining room wing, he had a chance to observe his youngest son without him knowing it. Joseph had come downstairs in the time he'd been outside with Hop Sing and taken up a position on the settee. Little Joe had been liberated from his 'prison' as he called it only two days before. Paul had permitted him some movement on the upper floor over the last week, but had strictly forbidden he take the stairs for fear he might fall and reinjure his rib. His brother's had kept him busy with chores he could do upstairs, from braiding tackle to chopping vegetables for Hop Sing. Joseph complained but they all knew it made him feel as if he was still doing his part for the family. He'd come down the night before ready to conquer the world and had lasted precisely an hour before wearily hauling himself back up to his bed – with no assistance, of course. Little Joe must have come back down the same way today since they were the only ones in the house other than Hop Sing.

Standing in the shadows, Ben looked the boy over from curly top to bare toe. Joseph was sitting on the far end of the sofa with his face turned toward the window. In the last week he had started to eat better and had regained a little of his color, but he was still gaunt and if someone would asked him, he would have said the boy's eyes were haunted by something more than the memory of pain. Joe had yet to regain that vivacious nature he had inherited from his spirited mother, though his strength and vitality were slowly returning.

His temper, of course, had been the first thing to return.

Joseph had a book in his hands. It was closed on his finger, as if he was using it to hold his place. He had his head back and his eyes closed and anyone who didn't know him would have thought he was asleep. Ben knew better.

The boy was troubled about something.

Stepping back into the hallway, Ben coughed and then headed into the room. Little Joe was sitting up by the time he entered and the book was open.

"Joseph! When did you come down?" he asked.

"Hey, Pa." His youngest favored him with a weary smile. "I swear while I was down you went and replaced that staircase with a mountain."

"Must have been your brothers," he said as he held the plate out. "I feel the same way."

Joe eyed the food and took two thin slices of cheese. Stifling a sigh, the older man placed the plate on the table in front of him before sitting down. After sorting himself out and finding a comfortable position, he nodded toward the book Little Joe was reading.

"I don't recognize that one," he said.

His son started. He glanced down. "Oh. The book? I found it in Adam's room."

"What is it?"

"It's by Solomon Northrup. It's called 'Twelve Years a Slave'."

"What's it about?"

The expression on his son's young face was hard to read. "It's about a free black man who is kidnapped and sold into slavery for twelve years before he's rescued."

Ben drew a sharp breath against his own memories.

"Yeah, I know," Little Joe admitted. "Kind of an odd one for me to read."

"Then why are you?" He couldn't imagine why his son would want to bring back memories of his own ordeal on the _Sun Princess._

Joseph closed the book and looked at him. "When I was out of my head that first time..." The boy frowned. A tooth gnawed his lower lip. "The nightmares I had, they wasn't – weren't about Finch Webb, they were about Wade Bosh and what happened last year."

He nodded. "Adam told me."

"Oh?' Joe considered that a minute and then seemed to dismiss it. "You know, Pa, since I've been 'in' my head..." He laughed. "I've been remembering everythin' I went through and I just can't make myself hate him. Bosh, I mean."

Ben shifted forward. "It's never a good thing to hate a man, Joseph."

The boy turned his body slowly until he was square with him. The intensity on his young face surprised him. "I know. But you know, Pa, I got every right. Folks around here say what he did to me was unforgivable. Taking me away from you, I mean."

Oh, how he remembered that night. Coming home to find Adam lying on the barn floor bleeding out and Joseph missing without a trace.

He'd had to come to grips with hate himself.

"It was certainly wrong."

"I know." Joseph paused. "But, Bosh, he was sick, wasn't he? And kind of out of his head too? I don't think he really wanted to hurt me. He was just trying to find his son and he thought it was me."

Yes, Wade Bosh had thought Joseph was Jude, but there was more to it than that.

"Go on."

"When I was out of my head a while back, I heard myself saying crazy things and I couldn't do anything about it." Those green eyes pinned him. "Do you think it was like that for Bosh too?"

He thought a moment. Then he nodded. "It's possible."

"So hating him, when he was out of his head and doing things that maybe he couldn't stop himself from doing, would be wrong. Wouldn't it?"

Now he understood.

"Who is it you _do_ hate, Joseph?" When his son said nothing, he added quietly, "Is it Finch Webb?"

Every muscle in the boy's body went rigid.

Ben rose and went over to the settee to sit beside his son. Knitting his hands together between his knees, he looked sideways at him.

"Well?"

Joe's jaw was tight. He drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. None of the anger seemed to go with it.

"What makes some men good and others bad, Pa? _Real_ bad?"

"Nothing 'makes' them good or bad, Joseph. It's a choice they make."

Confusion shone out of those wide eyes. "But _why_ choose to be bad? To hurt people? To take things that aren't yours?"

Ben thought a moment. "Do you remember what it says in Psalm 139? _'I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well. My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.'_ Everything a man is, son, good, bad, and in-between was put there by a perfect and loving God."

Joseph was frowning. "I don't understand."

Ben sat back. He smiled. "Let's take you for example."

"Me?"

"That temper of yours. God made it and He doesn't make mistakes." Ben paused. "So why do you suppose He gave that to you? Was it to wreck havoc with?"

After a second, his son said, "I sure don't know, Pa. It's like wrasslin' a grizzly sometimes."

Ben stifled a laugh. "I believe God gave it to you so you would learn to control it. Is that possible?"

Joe thought a moment and then nodded. "I guess so, Pa."

"So, the Lord giving you a temper means He gave you a challenge – one that, in the end, will make you a better man... _once_ you learn self-control," he laughed.

The wheels were turning behind those vivid eyes. "So, what you're sayin' is that, whatever made Finch Webb go wrong, was what God gave him to make him go _right_ – he just chose the wrong direction?"

"God made us perfect in His sight and gives us this life in which to be perfected. Men like Finch, well, they're rebels against God as much as men."

"So what'd God give you to overcome, Pa?" his son asked innocently.

What indeed? Fear. Pride. Ambition. A hot head and a quick tongue. A stubborn nature. A need to do for himself. All of these, more forty-plus years of walking the Earth had chipped away at, polishing the rough stone, refining it so it would be worthy of its final Heavenly home.

"Pa?"

It all boiled down to one thing.

"A lack of trust, son," he replied.

Joe's expressive eyebrows danced. "You? Pa, you trust God more than any man I know."

Yes. He did _now._

But it had been a battle hard fought and harder won. a

"You ask me, you got that one wrong, Pa," his boy said, with a shake of that curly head.

Ben chuckled. "Oh, I do? So why don't _you_ tell me what I have to overcome?"

Joseph's expressive eyebrows pulled down. "Let's see, a stubborn cook, a Yankee block head, and a big galoot with his head in the clouds."

"There seems to be one missing," he prompted.

Joseph puzzled over it. "Nope. That's it." He affected a surprised expression. "Unless you mean me? But no, that couldn't be."

"And why not?"

He grinned that grin that had been missing – the one that reached from ear to ear. "Because I'm perfect!"

Ben stared at his son open-mouthed and then laughed long and loud enough to bring Hoss and Adam rushing in from outside. With tears running down his cheeks, he told them what their brother had said.

Joe wasn't perfect for long.


End file.
